


Bad Blood

by mosomacilany



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Adult Content, Alcohol, Dark Alistair (Dragon Age), Dark Character, Dark Zevran, Detectives, Dragon age - Alternate Noire Universe, Drugs, Dubious Consent, F/M, Hardened Alistair (Dragon Age), Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Implied/Referenced Abortion, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Drug Addiction, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prostitution, Sexual Content, no magic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-09
Updated: 2018-11-08
Packaged: 2018-12-12 20:40:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 38,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11744784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mosomacilany/pseuds/mosomacilany
Summary: There is a dark side of Denerim where the streets are filled with the illegal alcohol and drugs, filthy of crime. It is easy to sink in this swamp and almost imposssible to get out.Detective Alistair Theirin investigates the murder of Lord Teagan Guerrin the prominent member of the Fereldan aristocracy and the clues led him to a well-known butterfly of the Denerim nights, Solona Amell. But as he begins to dig down it becomes more filthy and he realizes that nothing is what it seems.Many many thanks to my good friendOphielfor the beta.





	1. Orange Flower and Rosemary

The Yard was always busy from the rushing policemen and the noise of the ringing telephones and rolling typewriters. It was hard to find a quiet spot to clear his mind and to gather his thoughts. Alistair sat at his desk, staring the case file before him as he did for hours. Something was off and he hoped his awaited guest could provide him some answers.  
  
He heard high heels knocking on the cheap tile floor and saw a silhouette stopping at the door, concealed by the drapes he pulled down earlier.  
  
Solona Amell entered the dimly lit room, escorted by a police officer. The ginger haired woman ran her eyes across the policeman before Alistair dismissed him. But as if he was petrified he just stared the lady before him. An alluring glint in her green eyes, reflecting the lights of the neon lights shining through the shutter slats, rooted the police officer in one place.  
  
"I said, _dismissed_ ," he pressed his words firmly this time. The subordinate blinked as it woken from a trance, shook his head and left, shutting the door behind him.  
  
Solona Amell removed the fennec fur shawl around her neck and with a casual elegance and dropped it on the back of the seat. She sat down. Her stockings sighed as she crossed her legs. She leaned back and raised her eyes to him. There was something vaguely threatening in that glance mixing with the unreadable half-smile.  
  
Alistair had heard rumors of her. The mysterious butterfly of the Denerim nights. The exotic beauty from the Free Marches. The dame of the nightclubs and casinos. The shooting star of the Fereldan’s high society. She had numerous patrons among the aristocracy, who always sought her favors, overwhelming her with luxurious gifts. Like that fennec fur. He was sure that piece of pelt cost three months worth of salary.  
  
There was a even a classy name for her kind. What did Cullen call them? Luxury whore? No, he was too sophisticated for such vulgarism. _Courtesan_ , maybe.  
  
She pulled off her gloves and tucked them into her bag, before drawing out a golden cigarette case. Her every move was deliberate and considered as he observed. Her eyes never moved from him.  
  
"Smoking is not allowed here," Alistair declared. She raised the cigarette to her lips with an insolent smile on her face and lit it. She inhaled a deep drag from her cigarette, blowing the smoke right into the detective's face.  
  
"What will you do? Arrest me?" she mocked, her cadence was melodious and provocative. Alistair measured her in the dim, brushed light as the white and cold neon glare painted her fiery locks pale where it touched. He wondered if she was a natural redhead. Girls often dyed their hair red in her profession to make themselves more erotic than they were. He idly wondered if they dyed anywhere else.  
  
"It only violates the house rules of the Yard, so the prosecutor cannot issue a warrant," he replied. She smoked one of those flavored ones. Alistair could smell the scent of raspberry mixing with tobacco. Sacrilege to good tobacco, in his opinion. But even this nauseating reek couldn't conceal the scent of her perfume. _Orange flower and rosemary_. Everything on her was luxurious, delicate, a piece of epicureanism that half of the aristocracy had tasted. The other half... well they sought different enjoyments.  
  
"Shame, I would have loved to see you manhandling me. It must have been a _magnificent_ sight," she purred. “Then why did you drag me to this-" she looked around his austere office, filled with cabinets and case files. "dreadful place?"  
  
"A simple inquiry, the Yard is always appreciative when you assist with our inquiries,” Alistair shrugged. He placed a brown folder across his table, her name artfully exposed from the untidily tucked papers within. “I understand that you spent yesterday night with _Lord Teagan Guerrin_ at the Black Pearl. An institution near the Harbor?" She let his words sink in as she inhaled another drag from her cigarette, exhaling the smoke in his face again. He didn't startle though the smoke burned his eyes.  
  
"I did, indeed," she answered.  
  
"Would you be so kind to enlighten me about the nature of your acquaintance?" Alistair asked. Solona Amell reached for the cheap, tin ashtray on his table and stubbed her cigarette.  
  
"I wonder Detective, why is an ashtray on your desk if smoking is forbidden?" she inquired.  She leaned back on the back of her chair her hand brushed her neatly combed hair, dropping it over her shoulder, making her long neck visible. She was wily, he had to give that.  
  
"You haven't answered my question, Miss Amell," Alistair said.  
  
"Neither did you."  
  
Alistair crossed his arms before his chest. "The difference is _I_ am the one paid to ask questions here."  
  
Solona Amell raised her eyebrows, half amusement, half imitation of innocence reflected from her green orbs. "Are you accusing me of something?"  
  
"Not yet," Alistair stated, fussing with the case file lying on his table. "But this can easily change. So, Miss Amell, I ask you as nicely as I can once again. Would you explain me the nature of your acquaintance?"  
  
She took a glance on her polished red nails as if she search any spalling on it. "No."  
  
"Why, if you don't mind me asking?" he growled.  
  
"In my profession discretion is crucial," she purred. "It can be the matter of life and death,"  
  
"And what is your profession exactly," Alistair sighed.  
  
"Investment broker."  
  
“Right.” Alistair opened the case file before him, he had examined before she arrived. He watched the picture of the corpse covered in blood. It was the ugliest crime scene he had seen for a long time now. The whole room was splattered with blood. The skull of the victim smashed with a blunt object, his brain splattered everywhere. It took hours for the coroner to collect all to pieces.  
  
"Look, sweetheart," he began. "I have no time for your games. I'm sure on other men  is extremely effective, but I'm only interested in Lord Teagan Guerrin." He slid the photo across the table, where it stopped in front of her.  
  
"Shame, I would have bet my life on it that you are interested in women," she mocked as reached for the photograph. She observed it and he observed her. Her face was blank. Not even the slightest grimace of horror. Most women he expected to  break out in hysteria or a dead faint when seeing images like this. But this one was different. She was something else. "What do I have to do with this?" she asked as handed the photo back.  
  
"You were the last person who saw him alive," he said. "So please would you be so kind and tell me what happened that night."  
  
"Are you sure you can handle the truth, officer?" she challenged him.  
  
"Test me," Alistair steeled his voice.  
  
She sighed as looked away for a moment. He could feel a slight annoyance in it. "Do you want to know every single detail?"  
  
"Yes, sweetheart," he growled. "Every. Single. Detail."  
  
She sighed again. "Lord Guerrin and I spent a wonderful dinner together in the Cygne d'Or. He ate some Cuisses de Grenouille, I ate some Bouillabaisse and we drank fine Orlesian wine Then we went dancing to the Black Pearl which was his favorite place of entertainment and accidentally mines too. Then he was so kind to invite me to his loft where we spent two more pleasant hours together. Then he ordered me a taxi and I went home."  
  
"What did you do at his place?" he inquired.  
  
"A lady never tells," she replied and her lips curled into a telltale smile.  
  
"And you are no lady," he slammed his hand on the desk in his impatience. “So _talk_.” She didn't falter. Just took away her cigarette case and put on her leather gloves.  
  
"Do you have a warrant?" she asked as stood up.  
  
Alistair jumped out of his chair, his face tense, his lips pursed. He bypassed the table, grabbing her arm, yanking her to him. That was the moment he noticed the freckles on her cheeks. They were random, still felt like if one finger had followed them it would have given out a pattern. A route to uncharted lands."I can easily get one and put you in custody, sweetheart." he hissed. "Few days in Fort Drakon and you will sing like a little bird."  
  
"On what charge?" a soft chuckle escaped her lips.  
  
"Let's begin with a classic one," he hissed. "Obstruction of justice."  
  
She laughed. "Nothing obliges me to speak about my private life."  
  
"What about a nice steel bracelet around your wrist?"  
  
Solona Amell laughed and turned out of his grip. “I usually charge extra for that,” she smiled insolently as she adjusted her dress and put on her fur shawl. "As I said, it would be fascinating to be manhandled by such a dedicated and virile servant of the law, but until you bring me a warrant, I have nothing else to say." she strode to the door, stopping at the door frame, turning back at him.  "I'm sure we meet again, Officer Theirin. I hope next time somewhere more _pleasant_."  
  
She left the room. The officer stationed at the desk before his office jumped up as she passed, ran to open the gate for her. She cast a seductive smile on him. as left waving her hand to a casual goodbye. He watched her go, walking with that dress of hers clinging to every curve as the furs fluttered about her features with her movements.  
  
A figure in the hallway straightened up from where he leaned against the wall waiting for her. No, Alistair looked closer. Not he. _She._ The woman was wearing the pinstriped suit of a man, but there was no mistaking the hips. Short dark wavy hair peeked out from under the cocked hat she wore as her fingers twirled an umbrella idly.  
  
“Well?” Alistair heard as footsteps approached him from the evidence room. He glanced at Cullen, his tie lopsided from where he tugged it when stressed. “Anything?”  
  
“I’m sure she’s guilty, or at least guilty of hiding something,” Alistair said.  
  
“Yes, I can see you staring at her _guilt_ ,” Cullen murmured. He leaned against the doorframe, watching Solona Amell join the young woman.  
  
“Who’s that other person?” Alistair asked, cocking his head at the girl as he quickly changed the subject.  
  
“Evelyn Trevelyan. The Associate, she calls herself,” Cullen replied. “And by that, I mean ‘ _bodyguard_ ’. I arrested her for reckless endangerment and causing grievous bodily harm last year. She’s on probation.”  
  
The girl glanced at them as she turned to walk with Solona Amell, and cast Cullen a sultry little wink.  
  
Alistair gave Cullen’s reddening, thunderous face a sidelong look. “I can see she remembers you,” he noted. “Are you blushing because you’re staring at her guilt too?”  
  
“I-- No. I’m not. Shut up, Theirin. That joke doesn’t even make sense,” Cullen snapped as he headed back into his office, rubbing the back of his neck.

* * *

The door of the limousine couldn't close fast enough behind her.  
  
She searched for her cigarette case nervously. Her hands trembled. Her fingers fumbled with the flint wheel of her lighter. With a grunt, she threw it to the other side of the car, where a black leather gloved hand caught it. Light flared as Evelyn lit Solona’s cigarette. She took a long inhale as watched the Yard through the darkened window.  
  
The police cars slowly faded in the distance as they turned corner, heading to the highway that led to the Rise. Solona couldn't take drags deep enough to calm her nerves.  
  
"So?" a voice, tinged with Antivan accent asked her.  
  
She snapped, her glance meeting with a honeyed one, framed with a tattoo. Her dagger gaze pierced the shadows, which only made the man chuckle. "You are so irresistible when you are mad, dear."  
  
She inhaled another one from her cigarette blowing the smoke right into his face. "Guerrin is _dead_."  
  
"It does not change a thing," he stated.  
  
"It changes _everything_ , Zevran," she yelled. "How am I supposed to steal it now? Should I try psychomancy perhaps? The police closed the whole fucking flat as a scene of a crime. It will be a miracle if they don’t find it first. It is over, and I am out."  
  
She slammed on the window separating them from the chauffeur. The limousine shivered. Solona reached for the handle when the man grabbed her wrist. A click sounded ominously from the umbrella by Evelyn’s leg.  
  
Zevran only grinned at the girl before turning back to Solona. "Do I really need to remind you the motto of our enterprise? ' _We always deliver the goods._ '" He switched seats and hopped down beside her. His fingers closed at her chin drawing her face closer to him. "This is your last assignment, my love," he breathed. "With the price of this one you can retire, live like a queen for the rest of your life. You cannot quit, you and I both know. You are my best investment, so be a good girl and do not disappoint our clients now." he exhaled a soft kiss on her painted lips. "You are too deep in this to quit now, I hope you understand."  
  
“Speaking of goods,” Evelyn purred. “Hands off, Master Arainai.”

Zevran chuckled and sat back to his previous place. He lowered the window and ordered the chauffeur to proceed. Solona ran his eyes across his slender figure, his blue tailored suit, and Nevarran silk tie. His long golden hair combed behind his ears with an improper amount of pomade. The satisfied smirk on his face like it plastered since the day they had met.    
  
Solona looked out the window, observed the passing houses, her mind blank. It was better not to think too much. She learned that the hard way.  
  
"So how we should get the Chalice now?" Evelyn asked. Solona drew her glance on the black-haired girl as she stubbed her cigarette on the ashtray in the limousine. Evelyn was a few years younger than her, newly joined to their 'enterprise' as Zevran called it. She had a petite figure but Solona knew nothing should be judged by its cover.  
  
"That's a very good question, Zevran," Solona said. "How am I supposed to deliver the _goods_ now?"  
  
The man thoughtfully rubbed his chin. "Maybe we should involve the humble servants of the law, if they were so keen to meddle with our business. I think the situation desires your _sophisticated skills_ , my love."  
  
An unamused laughter escaped from Solona's lips. "Fuck you, Zevran."  
  
"Such profanity," he chuckled. "Nothing would make me happier, believe me."  
  
"That detective," Evelyn chimed in. "I know him. The bastard arrested me last year. We’ve got an opening there."  
  
"No," Solona shook her head, her glance lingering in the distance "We need the other one. The one that questioned me. _Detective Theirin._ "

“Why?” Evelyn asked.

“I suspect he’s the one helming the case.”

“Interesting,” Evelyn smiled, a click sounding from her umbrella as she settled back.  
  
"Splendid," Zevran clapped his hands cordially. "You have the prey, now set up a bait."  
  
The car stopped at the traffic lamp. Solona's eyes stuck on a mooning couple, They were blessedly oblivious of the scheming inside the car or anything happening around them. They strolled hand in hand blinded by pink clouds. She wondered how much time would pass before the boy would run after other skirts and the girl would resign to the comfort of ignorance. Before she would try to conceal the bruises and the scars, telling everyone it was just an accident. Half a year maybe? Or less?  
  
"No, he will come to me," she said at last, ignoring Evelyn’s disappointed pout.  
  
"So much confidence," Zevran purred. "On what you base this foreknowledge?"  
  
She chuckled. "Please, you and I both know I'm good in only one thing." She drew her glance on the man strolling with his sweetheart, running her eyes over him once again. "I know what _every_ man wants."


	2. Where Butterflies Go

~~~~The cigarette idly stood in her hand as she watched the Boulevard from her balcony. The sun was setting on the horizon enveloping the silhouette of the city into orange and golden. The streets were still crowded with working people rushing to their home. The creatures of the night hadn't crawled out from their dens yet, it was still the realm of humans. It seemed strange to Solona how pristine the streets seemed under the light of the sun. Come the night, they were filthy. She couldn't shower enough to wash herself of it, there wasn't enough perfume that could conceal the reek of it. Everything seemed nicer in daylight, especially from her apartment’s vantage high above the city. Butterflies were attracted by the light. But it always burned their wings.

She saw a car parking in the driveway, two flags of Orlais attached to the hood. And soon she heard the ring and followed by the door slamming. She walked in her spacious living room hopping down on her canapé, not caring the robe opened, revealing her black lace lingerie.

She had a relatively huge loft in the center of the Rise, where the millionaire entrepreneurs and the parvenu no ones like Solona lived. Business went well, everyone could tell. She was so far away from that mucky licehall she had in Starkhaven.

A bouquet of red roses landed on the coffee table and Evelyn handed a card to her.

"A chauffeur hopped in from the Orlesian Embassy," Evelyn stated.

Solona read the card and with a nonchalant move dropped it beside the vase. "I _hate_ red roses," she sighed."So trite and cheap."

"You’d say that," Evelyn scoffed. "Dare I ask who sent them?"

Solona stumped her cigarette and lit a new one. "Duke Gaspard," she replied as exhaled the smoke. "The gentleman is in town."

Duke Gaspard was everything but a gentleman. He was a drunkard playboy who loved to spend tax money on women like herself. It was fortunate that money and titles could conceal everything.

"What does he want?" Solona cast her glance on the black-haired girl. Zevran liked to keep his investments on a short leash. She always wondered why he felt necessary to assign a bodyguard. Maybe he didn't want another mistake. Damaged goods were worth nothing for the son of a bitch.

"A dinner, "she answered as stood up and poured a shot of whiskey to herself and another one for Evelyn. She needed her a bit less overwatching that night. It was time to take care her own business. Duke Gaspard was a generous and more importantly a talkative type, especially after he had drunk some alcohol and his primal desires had been satisfied. "And definitely to stick his undersized dick up in my ass."

Evelyn downed the whiskey as if it were water. "So this means you accept his invitation?" she asked curiously, and refilled her glass just for herself. Solona stirred the amber liquid in the glass, her answer lingering on her tongue.

"I do," she sighed with a moan of boredom. Evelyn nodded. She headed out the door to inform the chauffeur still waiting on the patio, the crystal glass still held idly in her fingers. Solona went back to the balcony and watched as the last rays disappeared and the people disappeared from the streets to give them to her kind. The crystal glass of whiskey was still in her hand. She poured it on the soil of the ficus standing in the corner.

"Such a waste of a fine whiskey, my love," he heard the soft cattish steps approaching her. A soft lingering touch on her neck, skilled fingers fussing with her stray locks inhaling the scent of them.

"I have dinner with Duke Gaspard, and then go dancing at the Black Pearl," Solona replied, feeling cold creeping up her arms. She drew the robe together on herself as turned to the shadow behind her. "I hope you don't mind."

Zevran chuckled. "By all means, dear. But isn't there _another_ business you should take care off?"

"He hasn't shown up yet."

Zevran casually leaned on the door frame, crossing his hands before his chest, his tongue making a tsk sound. "My, my, Solona. What happened with your legendary instincts. _Three days_. Shouldn't that cop be around your little finger by now?”

Solona walked beside him, taking off her silk robe, letting it to spill on the floor. Zevran looked after her, staring her swaying hips with a satisfied smirk. "Someone told me once if you want a rose garden you have to be patient. Be so kind to keep your own advice." The door of her boudoir slammed behind her.

Zevran chuckled as walked to her desk, taking one of her perfumed letter papers. He inhaled the scent of it before hastily he wrote some lines on it and folded it into four.

Evelyn returned to the from dismissing a chauffeur. Her footsteps brought her to the bar, where golden whiskey sloshed in her glass once more. Zevran observed his little wild card, as she drained her glass.

"These lechers keep her busy, keep me busy," she grumbled, leaning on her elbows on the bar. "I didn't sign up to be her doorkeeper."

"No, my dear. You are here to be my eyes and ears." He snatched the glass out of her hand. Evelyn glared at him. "I want to know about her every take of breath. That is why you are here. And now-" he handed the folded note to her. “Bring this to the Yard and give it right to Detective Theirin. It is time to accelerate matters."

Evelyn frowned and searched Zevran's puzzling smile. "Don't you trust her?"

"I trust in her exceptional skills," he answered. "But _trusting her_... that is completely different."

* * *

Alistair sat in his office, only a table lamp gave light in the dim room. After regular hours the Yard was quieter. Only the occasional blaring siren broke this blissful state. Alistair rubbed his reddened eyes and read the report again, trying to focus. It still lingered in his office. The scent of orange flower and rosemary. He could still feel the gaze of the sparkling green eyes. So it was true. She really imprinted under men's skin. But she was a glorified whore after all. Her every word, every gesture had a purpose. Alistair wondered that had she ever done something selflessly. Or just for love.

His thoughts were derailed by a coffee mug hitting the table. He looked up at Cullen, grunted gratefully, and grimaced as he drank from it. The yard had the worst coffee in all Denerim. Alistair could swear even horse piss couldn't be worse than that swill. But bad coffee was better than no coffee, and it kept them awake when they worked late. He forced it down his throat and lit a cigarette to take away the bitter flavor lingering on his tongue.

"Duncan will catch you. You are already on his list," Cullen pointed out. Alistair exhaled the initial drag and snapped his face to his partner.

"Duncan is not here," he growled. "Any luck at the coroner?"

Cullen hopped down the chair where a few days before she sat and for a moment he saw her, her legs crossed, the lace welt of her black stocking peeking under her skirt.

Cullen opened the brown case file. "The blunt object impacted his skull with great force," he read. "There are multiple injuries to the epidermis on his back. Scratches. Probably marks of a coitus" Alistair snorted and Cullen's lips turned to an amused half smile. "But it is not possible a woman of Solona Amell’s stature could smash a skull with that force."

"Shit," Alistair cursed as took another sip of coffee. "She is still hiding something."

"Probably," Cullen agreed.

Alistair stared into the distance, trying to collect the pieces together. Solona Amell was the only lead he had. And something was off around her. Even if he didn't have evidence, he felt it in his guts. She was the only piece of the puzzle that didn't match. And she was being unhelpful. He puffed the cigarette.

"Do you think she is a natural redhead?" he asked at last.

Cullen raised his eyebrows. "I guess. It seemed natural to me." Alistair hummed and a chuckle escaped Cullen's lips.

"What?" Alistair snapped.

"Nothing, nothing. I assume you asked this in a professional matter, not because you couldn't take your eyes off her."

"Fuck off, Rutherford," he scoffed. "She is a possible suspect. And an overpriced whore."

"A very _well-endowed_ suspect," Cullen pointed out, leaning his chin on his fingers where he rubbed his stubble. “As I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

Alistair frowned. "I thought you are more in the athletic type."

"I-- maybe,” Cullen gave in. “But I'm not blind. Even a fool would appreciate those swaying curves. And I know _you_ Theirin. You've lost your mind for half as pretty asses than hers. Just be careful."

Alistair grunted as buried his glance into the case file on his desk. His eyes ran the crime witness statements once more. He noticed that according to the testimony of the butler only one thing disappeared. A silver chalice-

The door slammed open, the sudden air-blast sent the papers fluttering on the desk.

A slender figure stood in the door, her hands idly in her pockets. Even with a hat cocked over one eye, Alistair could still recognize Solona Amell's bodyguard. She stepped in without any invitation, settling down on the other chair beside Cullen. Her legs lifted, heeled shiny oxford shoes resting on the desk. She cast a wry smile at Cullen, who sat stiffly, glaring at her. Alistair stood up and walked around his desk, resting his hip on the edge of it next to her feet. His arms crossed before his chest. She looked up at him with bright blue eyes, large and sparkling like the eyes of a doll. Then a circle of pink formed at her lips. In the silence of the room, the bubble gum bubble popped.

"What can we do for you?" Alistair asked.

"For me, nothing," she sighed. "For yourself... much more." She reached into her coat. Cullen shifted in his chair, his amber eyes watching her. “Easy, cowboy,” she said evenly. “No Grievious Bodily Harm today.”

“Just today?” Cullen asked. She grinned at that. With slow and deliberate movements, she opened her coat. She carried no holster around her white shirt and suspenders. She reached into an inner pocket and drew out a note, holding it high between her fingers. Alistair took it from her. He opened it and his eyes ran across the strict lines.

"Before you ask, I only deliver and I know nothing else," she said. She gathered her legs and stood up, buttoning her coat. "Oh, and could you do me a favor? Bring this sweetheart with you." She winked to Cullen, who despite his stony glower could not stop the heat rising in his neck. "He hasn’t come to see me in a while, despite the souvenir I gave him," she chirped as left without even a gesture of goodbye. Alistair noticed the heat creeping on Cullen's face as he followed the fading figure of the black haired girl.

"What souvenir?" Alistair asked.

"The _scar_ ," he murmured as rubbed the back of his neck. "It was her doing."

“What? How?”

“A steel toe cap.”

Alistair guffawed. "Now she is more your type."

"Maker, shut up, Theirin. I didn’t stay late to discuss my type," Cullen snapped. "What is that?" He cocked his note in his hand. Alistair inhaled the scent of the paper before handed to him.

" _Orange flower and rosemary_. Her scent."

Cullen read the hastily written letters on the paper before folded back into four. "I hope you have a tuxedo."


	3. Creatures of the Night

"And to what do I owe the pleasure, to have you in Denerim, Your Grace," Solona asked with fake cordiality as sipped from her beverage. She drank alcohol on rare occasions, always felt sick when she had to. Instead she always had craftily disguised drink, the bartender made only for her. He named it ‘ _Butterfly-effect_ ’, that Solona found utterly stupid and corny but it did the trick nonetheless. No one could tell there wasn’t even a drop of alcohol in it.

"A corruption scandal," Duke Gaspard answered, his words hazy, infused with wine. "Our ambassador meddled with some shady trade of artifacts."

"Did he now?" Solona chirped. "Shame. It is hard to find loyal and honest civil servants nowadays."

"I understand you know each other with the ambassador," his voice was tinged with jealousy.

"We are familiar, indeed," she admitted as crossed her legs making them exposed for the lecherous eyes of the Orlesian. "We've spent some lovely dinners together."

"Why are you wasting your time low-lives like him?" He leaned into her, crowding her personal space and running his fingers along the bare skin of her thigh, his hand disappearing under her skirt. No matter how many times she had done this, she still felt disgusted. She swallowed the irritation and plastered an alluring smile on her face, her eyes fixed on the wanton glance of the Duke.

"Professional hazard," she twittered as ran her gloved fingers down his cheek.

"You should consider my offer and leave this shithole to come back with me to Val Royeaux," he breathed against her skin as planted kisses on her neck. There was nothing sensual, nothing elegant in it just crude instincts.

Duke Gaspard always offered her fame, fortune, titles, and lands just to become her full-time mistress. But these were just empty words. Solona exactly knew Duke Gaspard had nothing but his title and a way too generous state income. Still not enough to make his extravagant proposals true.

She removed his hand from her thigh, dropping it in his lap, moving away from him with a playful giggle. "You are too generous, Your Grace. But please, give a lady time to consider-”

Gaspard grunted in frustration as stood up. He grabbed her by the back of the neck and pulled her to him, crushing his lips against hers, smearing the delicately applied paint on her lips. His breath was sour with wine, and even the finest cologne couldn't conceal his reek of sweat. He forced his entry in her mouth. Solona swallowed the rising bile in her throat kissed him back as a good whore would have done.

"You’re a tease, little butterfly. I warn you, I do not deal well with constant rejection,” he growled against her skin. She could feel his shallow hot breath leaving vapor on her skin.

"Duke Gaspard," she heard a melodious voice. "Would you honor me with a dance?" Both of their glances turned to the red-haired girl, wearing a simple black gown and pearls around her neck. She was Leliana, the regular singer of the club, also another associate of Zevran's little 'enterprise'.

There was enough composure in Gaspard to clear his throat and straighten himself. "If Lady Amell doesn't have an objection to it."

"If you must," she replied. Leliana nodded, escorting the Duke to the dance floor.

Solona lifted a cigarette to her lips, her eyes on the dancing pair. He hadn't drunk enough yet. He handled it better than usual. Light flared from a match lighting her cigarette. She inhaled a deep brag and rose her eyes to the two honeyed one.

"What the hell are you doing here," she hissed. "I'm trying to work."

Zevran chuckled. "I spared you from some unsatisfying sex. You should really thank me," He took a short glance on Gaspard improperly gripping Leliana's buttock. He leaned to Solona's ears, his fingers running down her bare back. "Duke Gaspard has a well-known appetite on red haired women. A few more shots of whiskey and he won't care if it is you or Leliana."

"I believe you don't understand the concept of my business," Solona stated, with a hint of annoyance in her cadence.

Zevran smiled, as sipped from the champagne flute in his hand. "I do, my love. But title does not necessarily comes with elegance and style. But you should know this the best. How many brutes has come and gone in your bed the last few years? Did they care how delicate you are? Of course they didn’t."

His hand came to her chin and lifted her face to meet his. His gaze was warm, still threatening. She knew this glance knew too well. "I perfectly know what _game_ you are playing tonight, my love. So don't try to scam me."

She smiled and laughed and pulled his hand from her face. "Don't you _trust_ me, Zevran?"

His finger brushed her stained lips lingering there. The lipstick paint left a blood red spot on it. "I still have the memento of our unfortunate venture in Minrathous. I can't afford you making the same mistake again. Or any mistake." His head cocked to the bar. "Besides, you have already had something to take care of."

Solona followed his glance until met a man in a tuxedo. His strawberry blond hair was elegantly combed, his face clean shaved. Solona felt disappointment. She strangely liked his slightly neglected appearance. It suited him better. He held a glass of whiskey in his hand, his hazel gaze searching something. Or someone.

"You fucking bastard." she hissed.

He chuckled as pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her. "I love when you speak dirty. I have a feeling, he would love it too," he exhaled a kiss on her lips. "Be a good girl and make me proud, my love."

"Go to hell, Zevran," she hissed as pushed him away from herself and stormed to the powder room.

A wide grin appeared on Zevran's face as he watched disappearing behind the door. "Only with you, my love. _Only with you_."

* * *

The cab turned into the parking lot of the Black Pearl stopping at the path paved with red carpet. Cullen lingered in the cab to settle the fare, while Alistair got out of the car and adjusted his tuxedo, his eyes scanning the establishment. A two-storey mansion rose before them, the walls painted to ostentatious red, the wide balconies adorned with colorful lanterns, as the latest fashion required. The sound of careless laughing and smooth jazz filtered off the building, long rows of wannabe stars and emerging nobodies waited to get in or just get on the months long waiting list.

Alistair lit on his cigarette as watched these young, hopeful and beautiful people, bathing in the tawdry shine of shallowness and the false promises of the Denerim nights, which inevitably became nothing more than sullage disappearances in the sewers in the cold light of dawn. He knew this world too well.

"Nice place," Cullen said as stepped next to him. Alistair hummed as puffed his cigarette. “You also owe me money.”

"Indeed," he answered, tactfully ignoring the comment about money. "Ideal place to set up a _trap_."

"And yet you accepted the invitation with nothing but me as back up,” Cullen noted, adjusting the cuff of his tuxedo. “I have the feeling this is really more than professional curiosity on your side.”

"Solona Amell plays in high stakes. I know her kind." Alistair dropped his cigarette and trampled it on the red velvet carpet, uncaring he left a black stain on it. “And I know how to deal with her kind.”

“If you say so,”

They walked to the entrance guarded by two bouncers put in elegant suits, but their tattoos still peeked out at their necks. Alistair recognized those symbols. Those were military tattoos.

"Invitations, sirs," one of them stopped them by putting his hand on Alistair's shoulder. He involuntarily grabbed the wrist of the man and twisted it behind his hand. He loosened his grip as Cullen's voice reached him through the flood of memories of a soldier hiding from the enemy, the sound of impacting grenades and batons deafened him. Cullen’s hand was gripping Alistair’s wrist, and a stunned hush had fallen over the people in line.

Alistair blinked and let go, the echoes in his head fading, drowning out his muttered apologies. "Old war wound,” Cullen explained. “Don’t mind him, he just doesn’t like to be grabbed. We left our invitations at home, I’m afraid. Alistair Theirin and Cullen Rutherford."

The man glowered at him checked the list in his hand. "You are not on the list."

"This must be a misunderstanding," Cullen frowned. "Miss Amell-"

"Step aside, gentlemen," another bouncer ordered as he approached, towering before them.

"They are with us," a tinkling female voice chimed in. "They are the honored guests of Miss Amell."

Solona Amell's bodyguard loomed up in the brightness of the entrance door, a petite silhouette, then a girl in a blue silk dress with pink flowers. The sleeveless, oriental gown followed her slender figure ended at her ankles, a deep cut revealing the curve of her calf. Her short ebony hair combed behind her ears at one side fixed with a golden headdress, adorned with blue and pink flowers, matching her dress. She held a golden pipe figuring a dragon. She didn't wear a particularly provocative outfit or makeup, only enough to catch men eyes. _Or at least one man's eyes._

Cullen's mouth slightly slackened as ran his eyes across the girl. Alistair chuckled as saw the red of embarrassment creeping on his cheeks.

"I'm sorry, Miss Trevelyan, I wasn't informed," the doorkeeper stammered.

”You are now," the girl smiled and winked as she passed them, taking the two men by their arms and escorting them to the vestibule, threading their way through the lingering guests.

“Why didn’t you bring your invitations?” she sighed.

“Why didn’t you put our names on the list?” Cullen muttered in return. She flashed him a grin.

Half of Denerim's elite was there. The Minister of Defense danced with an auburn-haired beauty, who was definitely not his wife. In the dark corner, the Mayor ran his hands on the well sculpted abdomen of a half-naked man, his fingers smearing the gold paint on his skin. These men who were the well-respected members of the Denerim society at daytime became primal creatures of the night. Alistair wondered if he was a product of another alcohol and lust infused night like this. That her mother swayed her hips the same way, that whore between the hands of the Minister, looking cheap despite the lavish cover. He could have felt the nauseating smell of her overused commercial perfume and wondered about her tariffs. He wondered about the tariffs of Solona Amell. Probably more than he could ever afford.

His thoughts were derailed by the sudden absence of the arm holding his. "Miss Amell awaits you at the bar," the girl said.

Alistair nodded. He noticed that her other hand was still around Cullen's arm, who was unusually stiff. "Only you," she smiled wryly. "This handsome is my guest tonight."

Cullen and Alistair exchanged a short glance before Alistair nodded. "Good luck with her, Detective Theirin. You'll need it," the girl chirped as glided away with Cullen by her side.

Alistair strode to the bar, made his way through the dancing pairs. He leaned on the bar, ordered a double whiskey and lit another cigarette. He could feel her scent, or he just imagined, he couldn't decide. His eyes scanned the room for her, across the sea of dyed-haired girls laughing inanely and preened themselves to the lecherous nobles until his eyes stuck on a green dress.

She was with her back to him, leaning to a marble statue, talking to someone. The velvet skirt of her gown followed the curve of her hips, the lace upper part had a deep cut, making her freckled skin exposed to the small of her back. Her gloved hand idly held a cigarette, the end of it stained with her lipstick. As if she felt his glance on her, she turned to him, her eyes glistened like a cat's when noticed the prey and her lips turned to an alluring smile.

* * *

Once they were alone, Evelyn led Cullen gently with her arm hooked around his. They threaded their way through the crowd, all the while the girl dropping idle greetings to guests and declining to introduce her handsome male caller, who stood as silent as the grave beside her. She led him out of the room, to an upper balcony, looking out at the ocean. There were other couples here, tucked away in their quiet corners, bubbles of privacy wrapped around them.

The cool sea air caressed their faces. The tide was out, carrying most of the trash in the water away, sweetening the breeze. “You can stop scowling now,” she said to him, letting her arm drop from around his.

“I was not scowling,” he said.

“Your face can make other expressions besides that one, you know, Cullen,” she said, setting her pipe down on the marble verandah. “But hey, I’ll take the one I deserve.”

“Was there a reason for this charade?” he asked, standing with his arms crossed stiffly beside her. “This is extremely inappropriate. We should not be meeting.”

“Right, because you’re an upright copper while I’m a whore’s bodyguard,” she snapped. “I’m sorry it’s only my hands that are dirty.”

He stared out over the black void of the sea. There was no moon that night, and it was like looking into the heart of darkness. He sighed. “You’re right,” he murmured. His arms uncrossed, and he leaned on his elbows on the verandah. “You’re not the only one with their hands dirty.”

She looked at him, her blue eyes uncertain. “You still didn’t need to do all this to meet me,” he said.

“Oh really? Should I have drop by for lunch? Have a coffee?” she chuckled. “You always--” Her voice faded, and she drew a breath. “Well, it was inappropriate, like you said. Especially after… everything. You got a promotion out of the whole thing too. Congratulations.”

He was quiet as she looked up at him, avoiding her gaze. “No, really, I mean it,” she said. “Honest.”

He sighed heavily. “I know you do. That’s what makes it difficult. I wish things had turned out differently.”

She smiled up at him, her fingers gently touching his arm. “Yeah. But you’re here now. For one night. You can have fun. You remember how to have fun, don’t you?”

He chuckled, his scar moving as he gave her a half smile. “What is this fun you speak of?”

“You know, fighting, kicking people, punching them in the face,” she said impishly. “Or dancing, polite conversation, normal people things.”

“Normal people?”

“Hey, we can try. Or I can go into the hall and point out who’s fucking whom. Scandals galore. While dancing I hope.”

“I don’t dance.”

“I’ll dance then, I’m good at it.”

She saw the red in his cheeks rising. “I’m happy you remember something good about me.”

He rolled his eyes. “Of course I remember good about you.” She stared at him, and he seemed to catch himself. “That is-- There was a lot of things that we did-- Of course I remember.”

She laughed at that. “Good,” she purred, her fingers running down his arm. “I would hate for you to forget. Come,” her hand wrapped around his, “You’re on duty, so you don’t drink. But you can watch me drink.”

“Aren’t you on duty as well?” he asked as she led him into the hall once more. His hand quickly reached for her pipe, which she had forgotten on the verandah.

“You’re an upright officer of the law. I’m a low-life who doesn’t give two shits.” He sighed, but followed her nonetheless, his hand resting comfortably in hers. It would be easier to keep an eye on Theirin from the bar, as it would be to watch Solona from the same vantage point. He watched her small form, the sway of her hips in that dress that should be made illegal, the loose lock of hair curling at her neck. She was wrong. He did remember good things about her.

She was _everything_ good he could remember from that doomed undercover job. That made it hurt more.

But maybe, just for a night…

* * *

Alistair stood motionless, watching her come towards him, her every move deliberate. From time to time she was stopped by a gilded guest who probably whispered a sweet proposal in her ears, an offer, a hint at their interest in spending some private time with her or inquired as to what the cost was to be with her. Solona laughed and smiled, gifted them with her golden touch through her gloved fingers, ended in a kiss landing on the back of her hand every time with the anticipation of a conquest. _Men were predictable._ He thought.

Her feline eyes were framed with black eyeliner that night never moved from Alistair. She wore simple makeup. Nothing elaborate, nothing exaggerated, just simple in its own elegance. She was something different. Something that wouldn't have left a sour taste behind. She was the kind that from men always wanted more. She was the worst of her kind.

"Detective Theirin," she beamed as reached the bar. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

She sat on the high bar stool, crossing her legs, making her neat legs exposed. Alistair briefly ran his eyes across them as sipped from his whiskey. "You invited me, sweetheart. Why are you so surprised?"

She hesitated for a moment. "I would have never thought you would accept it," she exhaled the smoke of her cigarette. "As I have never thought you are smoking," she pointed out as gestured to the cigarette in his hand. "You seemed so straight-laced about regulations at the Yard."

"You wrote in your note that you can provide new details about the Guerrin homicide," Alistair crossed his hand before his chest, ignoring her comment.

She leaned closer, an insolent smile on her face. "Do you have a warrant?" she asked. Alistair shook his head. "Or your badge with you?" he shook his head again. "I guess you even left your holster at home. Then every evidence shows you are off duty. So you are not here to interrogate me. Which raises the next logical question. Why are you here?"

Alistair puffed his cigarette and drowned his whiskey. And as the crystal glass reached the bar, the eager bartender refilled him, without asking him to do. She had her tricks. “Not to play your games, sweetheart. This is still an official visit.”

Solona tittered as stood up from the stool. “Right to the point, I like this. But has anyone ever told you that anticipation sweetens everything?”

“I have diabetes, Miss Amell,” he scoffed. ”Also kinda short with patience.”

“But I guess a dance is not too much a price for the information,” she purred as she turned to the dance floor. Alistair slammed the whiskey into himself as watched her hips swaying in a dress that would allure even the Maker to sin. Poison green was definitely her color.

He trampled his cigarette in the crystal ashtray and followed her. She took his hand and he pulled her body close to his. Her steps were smooth and graceful, as the melancholic jazz embraced them. Alistair felt her scent, soft and caressing, still enough to be intoxicating. His hand pressed in firmly against her lower back and guided her to match her rhythm with his body. His hips were pressed against hers, his breath falling softly upon her face. He wondered if anybody could ever say no to her. Probably not. Even he, who promised himself to not fall for her little games, followed her neat ass blindly. _Fuck._

A small smile tugged at her lips. "Well, well, you are quite a good dancer, Detective. I'm impressed."

"I have my talents," he stated dryly as spun her around and pulled her close again. Their bodies pressed against one another, closer than it was appropriate or advised.

She peered up at him through her thick eyelashes. "And quite handsome. The tuxedo looks ravishing on you. But one thing makes me wonder-" she moved one of her hands from his neck and touched his cheek, sweeping across. "This scar must have a story,"

Alistair grabbed her hand and guided back to its proper place. "I'm not here to discuss me."

Solona Amell released a dramatic sigh. "You can be so prosaically official, Detective."

He felt her footsteps slowing as the music swelled to an end and the sudden absence of her body as she stepped away. "Professional hazard, Miss Amell," he said. "You got your dance, so it is time for your end of the bargain."

"Oh, Detective, you are breaking my heart," she purred. "Don't tell me you didn't enjoy as much as I did."

"You have a heart?" he growled in his growing frustration. He couldn't tell what was frustrating him more - that he let this whore lead him on, or that despite his every effort he wanted her.

A wide grin appeared on her face. "This is a very good question," she glided away, casting her an alluring smile, a hint to follow her. Alistair raked his fingers through his hair and grunted. She escorted him through the shadows to a side door that led out into the cigar room, closing it behind them. She hopped down one of the couches and lit a cigarette, as leaned back, her legs crossed, and his arms rested across the back of the couch.

"I have to ask you once again, Detective, can you handle the truth," she purred. Alistair stopped at the other side of the coffee table, towering over her like a threatening shadow, his hands crossed. But she didn't falter, that insolent smile plastered on her face.

"What did you do at his place?" he asked, his voice steeled.

She puffed her cigarette and exhaled the smoke into his face. "Men want all the same from me, you know," she began, her eyes fixed on him. There was something unreadable in that gaze that made him feel uncomfortable. "But I never give them what they think they want. Any cheap trumpet in the harbor could do that. Even their frigid wives could do that. There is nothing special in the primal needs of men. But I give them what they need, or what they never thought they need."

"And what exactly did Teagan Guerrin need that night," he asked.

Solona put the cigarette at the side of the crystal ashtray and stood up. "Men need courtship, a companion, they need intimacy and discretion," she said as with slow and considered steps bypassed the coffee table, stopping inches from Alistair. "They pay for my company, not to shag me."

"Right," he scoffed. “So you are telling me that you and Lord Guerrin did nothing but talk all night. And about what? Constellations? Embroidery patterns?"

She chuckled. "I never said we were _just_ talking. But the nature of our conversation is too private to share with you," she ran her finger down his arms. Her eyes followed the movement of her fingers. He could barely suppress the shudder. "Lord Guerrin was always a gentle and caring lover. More than the usual, I always knew what he needed. He was one of my best clients."

"You told me nothing new, sweetheart," Alistair grabbed her wrist. "I knew he fucked you. Not a surprise, considering your _profession_." He spat the word like it was a poison on his mouth.

Solona laughed and smiled as move from his grip. "Why don't you call things as they are? I'm a _whore_. But a good one. And to be honest, I didn't invite you to provide some new information."

"I'm all ears, sweetheart," Alistair said.

Solona sighed. "I find myself in the very uncomfortable situation of I have an urgent need. And actually, you are the only one who can satisfy this need." She took a step forward him, running her gloved fingers down his cheek. He couldn't prevent the shudder waving through his body now. The smile on her face widened. "It breaks my heart, I can't give you what you need, but I can definitely give what you want."

She pressed her lips to him and sought entry eagerly as wrapped her hands around his neck. His arms circled her waist and held her fast against him. His hands sought the bare skin exposed on her back and his fingers twirled in end of her loosened hair. His kisses became hungry, more seeking, and a groan came from deep within his chest. He lost his mind in that kiss and the Maker knew what prevented him to not tear that blasted dress on her to pieces and make her of his own right there on the floor. He was a fool falling for her games and the more he wanted to break free, the more her webs tightened around him.

He broke away and for long seconds he just battled for air. He steeled himself despite every scream of his every fiber. "Sorry, sweetheart, I can't afford you," he hardened his voice and pushed her away from him, leaving the room, the stain of her lipstick still on his face.

He couldn’t get out fast enough to feel the fresh cold air of the night on his skin.

* * *

Solona watched him leaving with the other detective from the benevolent concealment of the balcony. The other detective released Evelyn’s hand, a look of disappointment unmistakable in his eyes as he turned from the girl to follow his partner. Her eyes followed Alistair’s rushed steps as he caught a cab and vanished into the darkness of the desperate night. She wiped the smeared lipstick from her lips with the silk handkerchief Zevran gave her earlier. And as if she just summoned him, she felt his presence behind her and soon a gloved hand smoothed down the line of her spine.

"So?" he asked as walked to the railing and sat down on it.

Solona stepped to him snatching the glass of champagne from his hand as brought it down with a single gulp. "Never, ever again put me in the situation like this," she hissed. "Do you hear me? _Never._ "

Zevran chuckled as his finger ran across her lips removing the remaining stain and champagne beads. "You gave me no choice, my love. The client is too impatient to give you the luxury of time."

"Fuck you, Zevran. And fuck your client, your 'enterprise' and everything else. I'm out," she yelled as stormed to the door, but before she could reach the handle he grabbed her wrist shoving her onto the couch. he slammed his two hands beside her head. Solona felt the uncommon feeling of fear creeping on her, quickening her breath and pulse.

"My, my, you still don’t understand your situation, do you, my love? You can't quit, or you will bring the whole thing. Rest is assured, Evie would testify against you anytime. It would be such a waste seeing you hanging on the gallows."

"Go to hell, you son of a bitch," she snarled, whisking her hand to a slap but caught, pinning it over her head.

"Shhh," he hushed her in an infuriatingly caring cadence. “Calm down dear, it would be such a shame if I had to do it for you. I hate when your skin is covered with syringe marks." She felt his hand gliding down her torso, gripping her thigh, lingering there for a moment his gaze on her lips as if he considered something before released her. Evelyn stepped in, Solona's fur coat in her hand. Her blue eyes hardened when she saw Zevran holding Solona against the couch.

Solona sat up, smoothing her dress, gathered her every willpower to not cry. Whores never cried, unless the client paid for it.

Zevran grabbed her chin, forcing her reddened eyes on him. "You are so beautiful, my love," he purred. "Promise me, you won't disappoint me."

Solona bit her lip before nodding. She wanted to feel pain, real pain, just to know she could still feel. Zevran chuckled as released her and left her in the charge of Evelyn. Her trembling hand lit on a cigarette, the other left smoldering to ashes in the crystal ashtray. But she couldn’t inhale it deep enough to calm her nerves, nothing could prevent a fat tear trickling down her face, black from her eyeliner. She hastily wiped it away as if it never happened.

Evelyn approached her, handing her the coat. "Did he hurt you?" she asked, her voice bearing genuine concern.

Solona jumped up, the green of her eyes blazed. She didn’t need Evelyn’s pity. False or not. "Don't act like you care, _puppy_ ," she hissed shoving Evelyn from her way and storming out the room, the building, rushing her steps until she felt the night swallowed her.


	4. Blood in the Hotel Room

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FBI is Fereldan Bureau of Investigation here.

The hotel had already been cordoned, the level evacuated by the time Alistair arrived. He was still in his tuxedo, his shirt half-buttoned and crumpled, the bowtie around his neck unfolded. His hair was disheveled as if he dived in the most deviant debaucheries of Denerim last night and had just woken up from an alcohol infused nightmare. He wished he had, then he at least had had an excuse. But the ugly truth was he didn't need alcohol to get intoxicated. It was enough a cloud scent of orange flower and rosemary and the sensation of soft lips on his. He felt so pathetic and unprofessional. Maybe he was really just a white-washed policeman with pet cases, who got a fancy office for his half-blue blood after all.

_Solona Amell._

He savored her name on his tongue, a sweet candy the ghost of her lips had left behind.

He grunted as stepped out from the elevator and passed through the police cordon. He had other things to worry about rather than thinking of women. Or one woman in particular. Cullen was already there, fresh and clean, looking very spick-and-span, as always. He was taking notes into his cheap notebook, as always. He was drinking from a hip flask, medicines for his headache, as always. He was always the better and more dutiful of the two of them. And he wondered why Cullen stuck with him at Homicides. He was clean after all, got his damned promotion, he should have been at the drug corps by now, or back in the FBI where he belonged. This stint was supposed to be a secondment, after all. He never really understood why he left the Bureau for the Yard.

The crime scene was a disaster zone. With the working had officers already rummaging through the place collecting the clues, combing every hidden nook, the place looked like a tornado had torn through it. With blood. A tornado of blood. The flash of the camera recorded every single detail. And yet, Alistair wondered how much crucial evidence they destroyed along the way, things they thought were meaningless, with their stomping great boots. How many pieces of the jigsaw would be missing this time?

Alistair's feet brought him to the corpse laying face down on the huge ornate canopy bed, naked. Where the skull should have been was a mess mangled skull and tissue, blood and brain splattered everywhere on the mattress. The sheets were a deep burgundy red of congealed blood. As he stared at the scene, he marveled at how immune he had become to the view of corpses as a detective, while other deaths haunted him night and day. He saw their faces, their blood sparkling red and fresh, while the man who lay before him was just a carcass.

He noticed something next to the bed, a small vial, the cerulean contents spilled on the nightstand. Alistair heard it singing to him, strongly and alluring and he wondered if Cullen also noticed it. If he did, Cullen  was doing a good job ignoring it.

"Lyrium, in that case, you wouldn't recognize," a female voice called him. Alistair turned to the coroner, the ebony haired woman, picking up the pieces of skull from the polished oak parquette. "I have a wonder, Alistair if you indulge me."

"Ah, there you are. I was starting to miss you," he sighed. "Do I have a choice to not answer, Morrigan?" He didn’t have to look at her to know she was there. Tall, slender, hair tied back in a messy bun. Probably wearing a gray suit with a pencil skirt under that white lab coat she wore. He glanced at her. And she was. Deep purple shirt today too. Must be date night.

"None, actually. I was simply wondering if this... neglected outfit of yours is the new regular uniform of the Yard detectives?" she asked, not even looking at him.

"Well, yes, This is from this summer’s collection following the latest fashion crimes. This one is called ' _The Broderick_ '. Do you like it?" he said, the snark dripping from his voice. He swept his eyes across the white lab coat of the woman, stained with blood. She had the reek of the morgue. Formaldehyde and rotting flesh. He always thought Morrigan preferred the company of dead over the living ones. At least she acted like it. "I had a hard night, so let's just stick to the business."

"Apparently," Morrigan mocked him. "You sound so very defensive this morning,"

"Couldn't you crawl back to the morgue among your dead friends? That would be great, thanks," Alistair sighed, hinting his annoyance. He rubbed the back of his neck, sore from the bad and restless sleep. "But before you do it, give me some status report," he forced a _'please_ ' on his tongue.

Morrigan stood up, she raised her cruel looking golden eyes from the body and rested them on Alistair. Shame. He found her pretty, he would have called her out for a drink or two if she hadn't been so insufferable. "The victim's skull was smashed with a blunt object."

"Do you have any idea about the murder weapon?"

"Well, considering the radius of the blood spatters, the thin spray around the head and the cast off on the ceiling, it must be something heavy and rigid swing at considerable force. Tis most likely a wrought iron poker."

"Do you have something solid for such deductions?" Alistair asked incredulously.

"A poker is missing, from the stand at the hearth" she pointed out as cocked her head to the fireplace at the other side of the room.

"Not bad. Not bad at all, Morrigan. I'd better watch out or it'll be my job you go after next," Alistair murmured under his nose hoping she didn't hear.

“Fearing competition will swoop down upon you?”

“Yes. Swooping is bad,” he murmured thoughtfully, looking at the body. "This is eerily similar to the Guerrin homicide."

"I also found traces of semen near the victim," Morrigan continued ignoring his trail of thoughts.

"And you know it is semen so quickly without any further tests, do you?" Alistair grumbled.

"Quicker than you, considering this is my field of expertise."

"Semen?"

"Human physiology," Morrigan glared, but her glance quickly changed to radiate some cruel amusement. "Or perhaps I've mistaken. Tis hard being single for so long. Those endless, lonely nights..."

Alistair reached into his jacket pocket for his cigarette case taking one piece out tapping it on the tin surface of the case. "You know, in moments like this when I truly appreciate the difference between you and me."

Morrigan scoffed. "'In moments like this when I truly wonder at the difference between you and a toadstool."

"Maker," Cullen sighed approached them, his opened notebook in his hand. Alistair’s quick glance spotted ' _The Black Pearl_ ' in Cullen’s spiky writing."You are fighting like a century old couple."

Alistair and Morrigan both daggered a deadly glare at Cullen. "Let's just-- get back to business, perhaps and try to be the professionals we think we are, okay?" He snatched the cigarette from Alistair's lips just as Alistair was flicking his lighter. Cullen crumpled it and handed it back to Alistair. "And yes, the victim had an intercourse with the witness just before the murder.”

"What witness?" Alistair snapped his head.

Cullen gestured behind him to a girl sitting on a chair in the corner her trembling body swinging back and forth. Her bob hair was shorter and darker than Solona Amell's was, her figure more slender and athletic. Her blue eyes reddened, her eyeshadow soaked by her tears. Someone was kind enough to wrap her in a blanket and bring some tea to her in the middle of that mess.

"Miss Leliana, this is Detective Alistair Theirin, Homicides," Cullen's disapproving glance swept across his outfit as introduced him. The girl raised her tear-streaked face to Alistair, her expression a colourless mask of shock.

"I have to ask you some questions, Miss Leliana," Alistair began. The girl nodded as sipped some tea from her cup. Cullen tried to object, but Alistair silenced him with a gesture already knowing what he wanted to say. "Do you know the victim?"

"Duke--- Gaspard, from Orlais," she stammered. "He was on an official trip here in Denerim. He--- didn't say why."

"What is the nature of your acquaintance?"

"I-I barely knew him," the girl burst out in tears. "We- we met in the Black Pearl. It wasn't even supposed to be me--- it was supposed to be Solona-"

Alistair snapped his face as the name left her lips an alarm sirened in his mind. "Solona Amell?" he asked. The girl sniffled as nodded her head. "What is Solona Amell has to do with the victim?”

"I don't know," the girl yelled in hysteria. "I was only told to substitute her last night. Ask his---" she sniffed as her voice trailed off, hesitating as if she blurted out something she wasn’t supposed to.

"Who? Ask who?" Alistair's voice became demanding to push the girl, who just shook her head and pulled the blanket closer together on her and humped her back and tried to become smaller as if she wanted to disappear.

"Who?" Alistair asked again but the girl just sobbed, her fat black tears mingling with her mucus and saliva.

"A word, Sergeant Theirin," Cullen’s voice cut through the red mists in Alistair’s mind. He pulled Alistair away from the victim to a quiet corner. "What the hell was that about?" he hissed.

“Solona Amell should have been here,” Alistair murmured, as his mind joined up the pieces of the puzzle. "Did they steal something?"

"Yeah, but she wasn't here," Cullen noted.

"Did they steal something?" Alistair asked again ignoring him.

With a resigned sigh, Cullen opened his notebook and perused his notes. "An artifact. An ocularum, to be precise. A skull with a crystal placed in the right eye socket through the back of the skull? Those baubles they sell in the spook shops?"

"What the hell-" Alistair exclaimed.

"The old ones made from real skulls are believed to be magical objects of occult importance. Some fringe religions use them as part of their rituals. Along with cats blood and goat hearts and the like. We don’t know where the good duke acquired his but he was showing it off to the maid and Leliana, it seems. It’s apparently real. As to how he got it? Well, that’s possibly a line of inquiry you’d want to pursue rather than frightening the witnesses.”

"How are you so well informed?" Alistair asked.

"Academical studies," Cullen snapped. "Also it seems the victim was very talkative with the witness before his death."

"So you talked to the girl before I arrived?" Cullen admitted it with a nod. "And I assume you asked her if she could describe the murderer."

Cullen uncomfortably rubbed the back of his neck. "No," he admitted. "She was in shock. It didn't feel appropriate to push her."

"Shit, Rutherford," Alistair grunted as turned to the red-haired girl who was escorted out by two medics holding her two sides to not collapse. "Well, it seems we have to wait to ask her about the murder. She is in the hands of the white coats now."

Two well-pressed suits entered the room, both Alistair and Cullen knew them too well. One a woman, though nobody could recognize it for the first sight. She had no feminine curves at all, She was tall and flat-chested, her shoulders broad. Only her long hair and sparkling blue eyes betrayed she was a female under the manly clothes. Meredith Stannard was a feared and admired name both at the Yard and the Bureau, depending which side of the gun you were. Cullen saluted crisply as noticed her, though he wasn't obliged anymore. Old habits died out hard.

"What do we owe the pleasure the Bureau has paid a visit?" Alistair asked, his tone filled with disdain and mockery.

"We are relieving your little ragtag of a department of this case. You are to turn over all evidence immediately." Meredith declared. "This case belongs to the Bureau now."

"What the hell?" Alistair exclaimed.

"It is an order from highest office, _Sergeant_ ," Meredith sneered as handed him the document with the elegant signature and seal of the Foreign Minister."The Duke was a member of a delegation, so it is now an international incident, and not meant for coppers."

"Bullshit," Alistair grunted.

"Discuss it with the Chief of Police," Meredith scoffed. "Until then you and your men have five minutes to leave the scene and hand over the evidence."

"Or else--" Alistair hissed.

“To you personally, Ma’am?” Cullen cut in, casting Alistair a warning glance to silence him.

Meredith crossed her arms before her chest a smug appeared on her face. "To my aide. Do not make me have to force you to leave.”

"Come on, Theirin, don't push it," Cullen nudged him. Alistair shot a glare at his partner before storming out from the hotel room to a cloud of swears.

* * *

"This is bullshit," Alistair yelled.

"Moderate yourself, Theirin," the Chief reprimanded. "Unless you want me to put you at a nice crossroad to control traffic."

Alistair sulked as dropped himself onto the chair before Duncan’s desk, ignoring Duncan’s sigh of resignation and the man massaged his grizzled temple. Alistair wondered how much Duncan must hate babysitting him. Duncan couldn't fire him, they both knew that. But he wasn't obliged to take him seriously, just as Alistair wasn't obliged to take his job seriously. Still, they both did, or at least they pretended they did.

"Sir," Alistair began. "I have a strong suspicion that this case is connected with the Guerrin homicide. Furthermore I believe the same person has committed them."

"It is a huge presumption to make, son," Duncan murmured. "Have you any solid evidence?"

"There are too many similarities. The killer’s MO, for a start. The perpetrator only took away one thing from both scene, an invaluable artifact." _A mutual person of interest,_ Alistair added to himself, though Maker knew why he didn't voice it.

"You make a fair point," Duncan conceded rubbing his bearded chin. "But my hands are tied, unfortunately. The order arrived from the Ministry of Defense _and_ Foreign Affairs."

"Sir. You can't really let the Bureau screw this up-"

" _Enough_ , Theirin," Duncan barked, his palm slamming the desk. His glanced moved Cullen standing in a dark corner, silently listening. “And what do you think, Inspector? Do you agree that there are similarities?”

Cullen straightened up, drawing a breath. “There are, but it is hard to establish a pattern across only two cases. Should there unfortunately be a third…” He paused. “But that’s something the Bureau will establish.” He pointedly ignored Alistair’s glare at him.

Duncan nodded. "Dismissed, Rutherford."

"Sir. If I might say, however, Alistair-" Cullen tried to stand up for his friend.

"I said, _dismissed_ ," Duncan yelled. "Unless you want to join Theirin in that nice crossroad." Cullen dutifully saluted before left the office. Duncan’s eyes ran over Alistair’s dingy tuxedo. Alistair could have killed for a cigarette and a shot of whiskey. Instead, his sullen glance just settled on a picture on the wall.

"What should I do with you, son?" Duncan began. Alistair already knew where this would lead. "Look at yourself. You are a mess. You could be our golden boy. You have the wits, the ability, but still, you rest satisfied like this. A pariah in the department."

"I'm just trying to do my job, sir," Alistair pouted.

"Then do it with some integrity, Thierin," he slammed his hand on the desk once again. "You could be a chief detective at the Homicides in a few years from now, if you had some professionalism in your work."

Alistair snorted. They were stirring words, but still, words were just words. They both knew why he was there and who put him there.

"You still let the Bureau take away the case."

"There is a thing called chain of command, son," Duncan hissed. "Try to understand. And try to fit in. It would make both of our lives easier. And the lives of some of your colleagues."

"I will try my best, sir," Alistair growled between his teeth.

"Then prove it to me," Duncan replied, his glance returning the files towering on his desk. "You already have a case to solve. So bring me some results."

Alistair jumped up and raised his hand to a sloppy salute and turned to leave.

"Alistair," Duncan called him, his tone softer than before. Alistair paused at the door."I do not intend to give up on you, no matter how hard you try. I made a promise, son."

"Thanks, sir… I guess..." Alistair murmured as left the office.

The same pattern. The same person of interest. She was still a piece of the puzzle, he just needed to know where she went. This time she raised more questions than before. Why did she send an invitation to meet if she was supposed to be with Duke Gaspard that night?

" _This is a very good question,_ " he heard her voice echoing in his mind.

He grunted as pushed her from his thoughts. He slammed the door to his office, sat down at his table and stared at the case file on his desk. Cullen, already sitting at his desk, did not even look up when he came in. He was used to Alistair’s moods, and continued to scribble on a pad of paper.

Alistair massaged his throbbing temple. He had a bad sleep. If he slept at all. He wasn't sure what happened after he took that taxi at the Black Pearl last night. He had fragments of memories in the red mists of his anger - hitting a boxing bag, slamming back cheap whiskey to drown the voices from the wars, collapsing on his dingy mattress, and forgetting to get undressed. He couldn't decide which was worse. Her crawling under his skin, or the images of a living hell still sharp in his memories.

"Well?" Cullen said without looking up. His pen scritched on the paper.

"Well what?" Alistair snapped. He reached for his cigarette case but leaving it in his pocket realizing they were still in regular hours. "He made his regular pep talk about integrity, the chain of command, etcetera, etcetera. But basically, we are off the case."

Cullen hummed.

“You don’t care?”

“I am a bit more accustomed to following orders,” Cullen said, looking up at last. “And I was from the Bureau. The case is in good hands.”

Alistair nervously raked his fingers through his messy hair, releasing a deep grunt. "She should have been there." He muttered.

"Solona Amell has a pretty solid alibi for the last night. An alibi _you_ provided her," Cullen snapped. "And I'm pretty sure Evie--- I mean Miss Trevelyan would corroborate her alibi for the rest of the night."

“How would you even kn--” Alistair stopped. “You asked her.”

“I was busy while you were waking up,” Cullen said pointedly.

" _Fuck,_ " he growled as grabbed his pen and slammed it into the wall. "Come on, Cullen. You know she is the one connects the murders."

"Am I?" Cullen barked. “I don’t know. You asked me to be your back up and then went into a room. Alone with her.” Alistair remained silent. Cullen leaned back, setting his pen down. "What happened last night, Alistair?"

"I already told you, didn't I?"

"No, you told me you didn't want to talk about it. Then when I asked again at the Two Crowns you said _'Fuck off, Rutherford_ ' and left me there," Cullen frowned. Alistair looked at him but for a brief moment he saw two green feline eyes and painted lips turning to a telltale smile.

"She... kissed... me..." he admitted, feeling the red hotness of shame and embarrassment creeping on him. "And... I... kissed... her... back."

Cullen’s eyebrows raised as he stared at his partner, his amber eyes thoughtful. Alistair scowled running his fingers through his hair once again. He rested his head on his palm, his elbow kneading on his desk. Millions of thoughts rushed through his mind. He shouldn't have let her close. He shouldn't have gone to the Black Pearl. He could have stayed in the office, get a warrant from the prosecutor, but the ugly truth was he wanted to see her. And he _wanted_ to kiss her.

"We still have a lead, if you want to establish connections. We could visit that girl, Leliana?" Cullen said, but only fragments reached Alistair. "The case is under Bureau jurisdiction but I know the doctor from the undercover days who’s working at the hospital. He owes me a few favors. Alistair, are you listening?"

"She is in an urgent need," Alistair muttered.

"What?" Cullen blinked.

"She said she was in an urgent need that only I could satisfy." he repeated as a glint of an idea flashed in his eyes.

Cullen glanced suspiciously at him. "What are you planning to do this time, Theirin?"

Alistair’s chair rolled across the worn wooden floor. "I need some flowers and a reservation."

* * *

There was smooth jazz playing in the morgue. Cullen always found this extremely disconcerting. Jazz was something he associated with swanky clubs, or nights when you had specific plans with a special someone. It wasn’t something you should hum to while cutting corpses open. But it was just something strange that Morrigan did. It was one of many strange things she did that puzzled him. She stood in the cold light of the morgue. A body lay on the table before her as she leaned over it. He hesitated.

“No need to stand on ceremony, Inspector,” he heard her say.

Cullen saw her looking at him through their reflections in the polished steel doors of the… fridges. He approached, his eyes drawn to the cut open corpse. She was pulling back the skin and muscles of the corpse after making a y-incision. Her gloved delicate fingers clipped the skin back with steel pincers. Cullen felt sick. “Doctor,” he muttered weakly.

“Hold this.” She pressed a pair tweezers in his hand which pinched a fold of flesh back, and he felt the distressing tug of flesh pulling against it, and a squelch. She turned to grab another clip from a tray, glancing at him in amusement. “I am surprised to see you react like this, considering the men you send to me by your own hands, sometimes. Does cutting people up for medical purposes instead of in self-defence offend your sensibilities?” she asked.

“I’m not wearing gloves--” he said stupidly.

“I hardly think you should worry about infecting our friend here,” she said, returning with the clips. She took the tweezers back from him.

“I wasn’t worried about infecting _him_ ,” he said, heading to the sink to wash his hands.

“You needn’t concern yourself,” she went on, her hands busy with her grisly work. “Count to twenty while you lather with soap. Now. To what do I owe the dubious pleasure of your visit?”

Cullen turned on the tap. “I stopped by to ask about the possible tests you were going to conduct on the Duke, if you’re still assigned to this case, I mean,” he said as he lathered his hands. _Five, six, seven…_

“Did His Highness ask you to enquire on his behalf?” she smiled.

“No. And don’t call him that.”

“Twould be easier not to if he stopped acting like a petulant prince.”

Cullen sighed. It was hard to disagree with that sometimes.

“I have a wonder.”

“Just a one?”

“I wonder many things. Not least of which being why you even put up with his insubordination.”

Cullen flicked the water from his hands into the sink. “It is difficult to explain, Doctor,” he said.

“Feel free to use words with few syllables, if you must.”

Cullen glowered at her, but she was far too busy with the corpse. “He knows his business, and has good instinct,” Cullen began.

“Could it be that his insubordination does not matter? That however foolishly he behaves, he will never risk losing his job?”

Cullen’s eyes hardened. “He is a good person. But troubled. We were all troubled once.”

“Some more than others,” she noted. “You seemed to recover.”

“I came to ask about your tests,” Cullen pressed, quickly changing the subject.

“Basic autopsy.” She looked up at him. “No plans for toxicology, though samples are saved, should the need arise. I am still in charge. I am the best in the city.”

Cullen did not argue with her there. Even among the Bureau, her reputation was well known. “I presume you will soon stop sharing information,” he said.

“Yes,” she smirked. “I have prepared a preliminary report. You may have it, if the fancy to jeapordize your career for your friend’s mental well being strikes you. The Bureau has not sent me any gag orders as yet.” She nodded to her desk.

Cullen went over to retrieve the report in its brown folder. He opened it and ran his eyes over the her florid writing. “Let me know if you need me to explain any of the longer words,” she purred.

“I can read prefectly well, Doctor,” he said testily. “I am an Inspector.”

“Precisely my point.”

He did not rise to that.

“I find it curious,” she went on conversationally. “I know Theirin is a dolt. You seemed to have a modicum of greater wit about you, or so I thought. Now I see you both are eerily similar.”

He frowned. “Your meaning?”

“I didn’t think I needed to explain myself,” she blinked at him, her yellow eyes wide. “I thought you were an Inspector.”

“Maker’s breath,” Cullen sighed and shut the file. “Thank you and good day, Doctor.” He turned to leave, shutting the door a little harder than he should have. He was smart! He knew words! He read books! It irked him that he always walked out of her office feeling like a dunce who barely avoided his teacher’s ire.

Despite how insufferably she said it, she was right. He and Alistair were eerily similar. Alistair was walking down that same doomed path Cullen had before. And Cullen knew where that path led. It would not end well, not for Alistair, not for Solona Amell.


	5. Daffodils

_The girl’s legs trembled as she stood in the middle of the deep red salon, ornate with gold. She was weeping in silence for hours now. She gave up fighting back, to understand the reasons why long ago, and her throat was too hoarse to scream and curse anymore. So she just drew her torn clothes closer to herself to conceal her exposed bruised skin and stared the pattern of the carpet under her feet. She could feel the taste of her own blood on her lips._

_Every tap of high heels on the mahogany parquet was like a hammer to the skull._

_Someone stopped right before her. She didn't look up to see who was it. A pleasant but dense scent filled her nostrils. Cinnamon, anise and maybe cardamon. Or vanilla?_

_A neatly manicured hand grabbed her wrist and lifted, then suddenly dropped. "She is covered with bruises," a deep yet feminine voice noted._

_"She was reluctant to come," The girl's legs sagged as the well-known cruel voice thundered in the room. Or he maybe whispered. It still hit her with the force of a storm. She still felt the reek of cheap booze in on him. Nausea crept on her._

_The lady hummed as her feathered fan propped her chin and forced the girl to look up. Her reddened and swollen eyes met with a pair of dark ones. The woman was heavily painted. Her ashen hair combed high above her head. Corset wrapped her generous curves. Red and black, ended in a skirt. A velvet ribbon around her neck. And the girl suddenly understood her situation._

_"At least you spared her face," the lady said._

_"It is the only thing on her beside her cunt that still worth something," the girl felt the vile grin on her skin even without looking at the man. "I liked her pretty. So do ya want her or not? I don't have time to dally here all day."_

_The lady measured her intently as if she was searching something in her glance. After what felt like an eternity, she gestured and two girls appeared. "Take care of her," she ordered._

_They took her by her arms and led her to the stairs. As her legs led her to forward the world narrowed, darkened, and soon she heard nothing else but the blood throbbing in her ears._

_First, they waxed her body everywhere except a tuft of hair between her legs. She knew it was supposed to hurt but she felt nothing. She didn't even wince. Just stared into the distance with glassy eyes. She felt drifting as if she were feather light, drifting somewhere far away. Maybe she was under the water. She felt as her breaths grew shallow. Maybe she died when he had beaten her.  Maybe it was all a nightmare. Maybe the last few years wasn’t real, and would fade from memory with the morning sun._

_Warm water hit her skin and she found herself in a tub. She had no idea how she got in there. Someone washed her hair, another one rubbed her skin clean and smooth._

_She heard the door open._

_"Leave us," a familiar voice ordered. The figures around her flowed away and her vision slowly cleared. The lady circled her tub, her heels rhythmically knocking on the tile floor, her eyes measured her. The girl scooped up her legs to her chest to conceal her nakedness. The lady strode to a vanity table filled with vials. Her manicured fingers lifted one vial after another and lifting them to her nose. Then with a satisfied hum walked back to her, still circling. Her warm glance felt predatory, making the girl’s skin crawl._

_The lady canted one of the vials in her hand and poured its contents into the tub. "Orange flower," she purred. She opened another and a few drops landed in the water. "And a pinch of rosemary," she added. "Fresh, vibrant and innocent with a hint of mystery. This will be your trademark." She brought the vials back on the table._

_"I-- I don't understand," the girl stammered._

_The lady sighed as turned back to her. "Beauty is ephemeral. The eyes forget fast. There are many things on you that would catch a man's eyes. Your hair. Your eyes. Even your freckles. Normally, I would insist to conceal them with powder but they give you some unique touch." She grabbed a nacre comb and sat at the side of the tub, right behind her. "Give the man something that imprints. A memory. Something that lingers long after you are gone. That makes him crave after you."_

_The lady began to comb the tangles out of her hair. "I don't want to be a whore," the girl whispered so feebly she doubted any sound had left her lips._

_She heard the lady chuckling. "I prefer the term fille de joie. You don't have to sleep with men to be rich," she purred. "I don't sell sex. A trumpet would do the job for a few coppers. We don't give them they want, we give them they_ **_need_ ** _."_

_The girl felt her glance on her bruised skin. "Poor little poppet. Another broken flower. Men are cruel, vile creatures," she spat. "They think they can rule everything. But they are only the miserable preys of their own primal needs. I could give you a weapon that would make every man fall on his knees for you. Millionaires would barter their fortune away just to lay their eyes on you again. Leaders would whisper their darkest secret just to touch you."_

_The girl's tensed body slowly relaxed and she leaned back to the wall of the tub. Her words stuck in her just listened to the lady's considered, still alluring words. They converged into a sweet melody hazing her mind colliding with the feeling of the hot vapor of the water and the scent of orange flower and rosemary, seeping in her skin._

_"What is your name, my dear? Doesn't really matter," the lady said before she could answer. "Your name is_ **_Solona_ ** _from now on," she declared. The girl just nodded as if she were in trance. It felt too surreal to be real. "And you can call me Madame Chaudron."_

* * *

Solona thoughtfully read the headlines of the evening newspaper.

_‘Duke Gaspard de Chalons of Orlais was found dead in his hotel room.’_

She couldn’t decide it was divine luck or Zevran’s blessed intervention that spared her from another visit to the Yard and she almost felt sorry for Leliana, imagining as the virile policemen interrogated her. She imagined as Detective Theirin sitting in front of her, his strict eyes switching between the case file and her, bombarding her with obligatory questions, nagging her about inconvenient details, scribling everything down in his tattered, coffee stained notebook.

Yes, she almost felt sorry for Leliana. _Almost_.

Because Solona found herself marveling the idea of her _self_ sitting in that tumble-down chair of his office instead of Leliana, two strict eyes measuring her, interrogating her, running over her in searching circles. She imagined him yanking her hands behind her back and put shackles on them for a trumped-up charge like obstruction of justice or complicity, and his stern voice listed her rights. “ _You have the right to remain silent when questioned,_ ” he would have said,” _Anything you say or do may be used against you in a court of law._ ” and then he would have growled something like, ‘ _oh, fuck it_ ’ and kiss her the way he did in the Black Pearl. As if it were a cheesy scene from one of those dime-novels.

Solona chuckled at the thought of her cheap and drossy fantasy as her fingers involuntarily touched her lips, where the ghost of his kiss still lingered. She had to admit that it was the most pleasant kiss he had had in years. She still felt the taste of his bittersweet whiskey on her tongue and his smell of cheap cologne and tobacco. It flooded her with some kind of warmth she hadn’t felt for a long time. And she knew it wouldn’t end well. It never ended well.

She was reading the gruesome details of the inglorious end of the Duke of Orlais, wondering if anyone would ever wholeheartedly miss the drunkard, whoremongering bastard when heard the crystal vase landing on the coffee table. She didn’t even bother to look up at it. It must have been another tawdry bouquet from another suitor. They liked to call themselves like that. As if a fancy name of something would have changed anything. They were probably red roses, she thought. From the corner of her eyes, she saw Evelyn putting the card next to the vase. Strange, Solona couldn’t recall hearing her doorbell ringing or maybe she was just too lost in the hokum of her mind.

Solona with a dramatic sigh turned a page in her newspaper, ignoring the proposal laying on the coffee table. She had no mood for fancy restaurants, noisy locales and empty promises.

Then a sweet scent filled her nostrils, smuggling a soft smile to her lips. She looked up from her newspaper raising her face on the bouquet of yellow daffodils on the table bound with a simple green ribbon. Solona loved daffodils. They reminded her of the dancing ballerinas especially when the breeze stirred them. They were graceful and ethereal. They were so simple yet so beautiful.

She reached for the card, her eyes hastily reading it, an unintended giggle of surprise escaped her lips. “Who brought this?”

“A newsboy,” Evelyn answered. “Who is the fortunate one?” she inquired, her suspicious eyes observed Solona.

“A Detective of the Yard,” Solona smiled handing the card to Evelyn whose languid glance scanned the jauntily written lines.

“About time,” Evelyn scoffed. “What should I tell the newsboy?”

Solona bit the wall of her mouth to regain control over her gestures, putting on the mask of mannerism. A whore never showed pain or joy unless the client wanted to. She had to remind herself. Everyone had their place in the world and if one thing she learned through the years this place had never changed. She wasn’t a damsel who he asked for a date. She was a whore and what he wanted from her was pure business.

“Let’s make Zevran happy,” Solona sighed forcing a hint of boredom in her voice. “Tell the boy, I accept his invitation.”

Evelyn nodded as disappeared behind the door. Solona driven by a sudden idea walked to her balcony peeking down the street before her loft.

And Alistair Theirin was there.

He was leaning against a lamppost, waited idly, staring the ground. His face was hidden behind his fedora hat. He was still in his tuxedo, stained with the spoils of the last night. His bowtie tucked into the pocket of his jacket. He seemed so jaded, so lonely. So _real._

 _He rejected her._ Still he was standing before her house now waiting for her answer. This somehow flooded her with some disappointment. She thought he was something different from other men.

Solona wondered if anyone had ever said ‘ _no_ ’ to her. She couldn’t recall a single occasion. She was trained to get what she wanted one way or another still made the men believe she gave them what they wanted. But what exactly she wanted from Detective Theirin? She didn’t kiss him because she had to. She knew other tricks to reach her goal. She kissed him because it felt _good_ to do it. But a whore never did something for her own pleasure. Everything was business and everything had a price.

She heard the door slamming, and Evelyn’s lazy steps coming back. Solona walked back to the living room, inhaling the scent of the daffodils before settling back on the couch and lit a cigarette.

“Interesting choice of flower.” she hummed.

“Why?” Evelyn inquired. Her steps brought her to the bar, pouring a shot of whiskey as always. She handled the alcohol well, Solona had to give that.

“ _Your siren, ethereal soul is like the pale white daffodil; You proudly draw your head up high so all bow to your will,_ ” Solona recited a poem a little girl read in a book in her long hours of solitude.

“Interesting. I’d never think you are fancy in things like poetry. You are always so practical,” Evelyn noted as dropped some ice in his glass and slamming it with one swig.

“I have my talents. You know, I wasn’t always a whore,” she said as read the card once again. His handwriting was stark still had some elegance in it. It was like himself. And it was a twisted world where they had anything to do with each other.

“What were you like?” Evelyn asked, genuine curiousness in her voice. “Before this?” she meaningfully looked around in the spacious living room.

Solona hummed as leaned back on the couch, She inhaled a deep drag from her cigarette and ran her eyes across the black-haired girl. “Do you really want to know?” she asked. Evelyn nodded as poured another glass of whiskey for herself and settled in the armchair in opposite of Solona.

“I was born in a wealthy family,” Solona began, her eyes on the yellow daffodils. “My father was maybe the wealthiest and most influential man in the Free Marches, but for sure in Starkhaven. He had a car factory. The symbol of freedom as they say. The business went well. And I, his Little Sunshine - as he called me, had everything I wanted. I was educated in the best schools,” she took a glance on Evelyn, saw the attention in those big sparkling eyes.

“I learned not as practical things as your knowledge. I wish I had, maybe my life would be different now. I learned languages, history, literature, arts, everything an educated lady should know,” her voice trembled for a moment. “On my sixteenth birthday, my parents went on a charity ball. They always did. Society, pretending was always more important than the real family. I was getting used to it. But that birthday was different. It was supposed to be different. I came to the age to debut, still my parents kept me hidden as if I was something shameful. So I escaped from the mansion to have the party of my life. It was a hell of a night indeed. I danced and drank until a passed out. Also, it was the hell of an awakening. Tied to a chair, a gag in my mouth.”

She felt a lump growing in her throat, trailing her voice off. “They demanded ransom for me from my father, An amount he could have easily paid from his side pocket. But he refused to pay. Money, his empire meant more to him, than his Little Sunshine. “With a painful sigh, she crumbled a tear gathering in her eyes.

“When it came clear my parents wouldn’t pay my abductors began to discuss what to do with me. Some of them suggested to rape me, then kill me, but beside it would have satisfied their temporary needs it wouldn’t have been profitable. Someone suggested to recruit me in their little crime syndicate but I had no skill that time that would have been useful to them. So they settled eventually to sell me to a brothel. I was always pretty, you know,” she couldn’t hold back her tears anymore.

“I was fighting, screaming all the way long to Val Royeaux, but they beat me as long as I had no more strength or courage to hit back,” she sobbed. reaching for a tissue paper from a box on the coffee table, wiping her tears away. “They sold me to a well-known madame in Val Royeaux. She trained me and gave me a more lethal weapon than your knives and guns. She gave me the art of words and gestures. She made me who I am today.”

A heavy silence descended on them. For long moments none of them moved but eventually, Evie moved from the armchair sitting next to her, closing her arms around her shoulder in a tight hug. Solona didn’t move. “I’m sorry, I had no idea,” she whispered, her voice filled with sympathy and understanding.

The pain suddenly disappeared from Solona’s face and replaced with a blank, even cold expression. “Oh, sweet, gullible girl,” she breathed. “You believed it, didn’t you?”

Evelyn startled back, her puzzled glance meeting with Solona’s vacant one. “I was taught to tell plausible lies. Lies you would believe, that you want to hear. You wanted a heart-wrenching story about a poor girl who ended up as a whore, so I gave it to you.”

Solona leaned to the coffee table and stomped her cigarette in the crystal ashtray. She stood up and looked down on the baffled girl from high above. How young and how innocent she seemed. Even the cruel laws of the streets couldn’t kill this out from her. Solona wondered how she did survive that long. “It doesn’t matter who I was before. That girl is long dead. And never ever again ask me about it.”

Evelyn smirked, chuckling into her drink. "Well," she said. "I suppose I walked into that. Touche, Solona." She took a sip, the ice in the crystal glass tittering as she lowered it. "Let me share a bit of that practical knowledge you speak of, if you will. When I was thirteen, training with Zevran, he still had this idea of whoring me out. Until I went and did something silly, of course. I wasn't eager for the job, you see. Unfortunately, there were people willing to pay for a feisty young thing who fought back. I did. Always. It didn't always help, but I made sure to hurt them back. Eventually, I tired of struggling. I got a bit sneakier. Turns out a man turns green when he swallows cyanide."

She lifted her glass and took a sip. "Unfortunately, cyanide seeps into the skin and I became ill from handling it. I could have very well killed myself too, had I handled the dose long enough. Something I did not know as an amateur poisoner. Zevran was angry, not that I'd killed the man - he was quite impressed about that. But that I'd made such a rudimentary mistake doing it." She smiled at Solona. "You want to be careful with those plausible lies of yours. They seep into the skin and could kill you just as easily." She sighed at her empty cup. "At least Zevran decided on a different career path for me. Now I spread my legs on a strictly amateur basis, as he would say. Can I have more of that whiskey?"

Solona gestured to the bar. Evelyn jumped up, her smile feline. Solona watched her as poured another shot for herself and a satisfied smirk curled at the side of her mouth. That son of a bitch couldn’t weed out everything after all.

“I don’t need your services tonight,” Solona declared as walked to the balcony to watch the setting sun. She heard Evelyn muttering something under her nose, but she didn’t hear what and honestly, she didn’t really care. She glanced on the street but he was nowhere. She strangely felt disappointment. But why would he be there? He got for what he came for.  

An icy breeze hit her skin sliding balcony door shut. Solona drew her glance on the horizon again waiting for him to speak. She didn’t need to turn to know who paid her a visit.

“Nice flowers,” Zevran purred. He joined her at the railings, leaning casually on them. “Dare to ask who sent them?”

“Please, Zevran,” Solona forced a smile on her face as turned to him. “Don’t act like your loyal puppy hasn’t informed you.”

“Ah, I see you are still sulky, my love.” he chuckled, his fingers sliding down her lower arm. “Believe me, it hurt me more than you. I hate when I have to discipline you.”

“Damaged goods value less?” Solona sneered.

Zevran laughed. “So practical, as always.”

He straightened and stepped closer to Solona closing the distance between them. His right hand came to caress her cheek, cupping it in his palm as he locked eyes with her.  “You are special to me, my love. More than a simple investment, I consider you like- “he savored the word for a few moments before it left his mouth. “- a jewel. A ruby I can marvel whenever I want.”

“A jewel you whore out, when your interests demand,” Solona pointed out as moved his hand from her skin.

Zevran chuckled as took a step back. “I can’t deprive the world of such beauty.”

“Apparently,” Solona snapped. “You know, _he_ thought the same. And his corpse is rotting six feet under the ground now.”

Zevran laughed. “Are you threatening me, my love?”

“Let me ask you something, Zevran.” Solona suddenly changed the subject. “Has it occurred in your brilliant mind that the Yard maybe knows nothing about the whereabouts of the Chalice?”

Zevran rested his hips against the railing, his inquiring eyes locked Solona. “My, my,” he purred. “If I didn’t know how cold-hearted professional you are I would say you are reluctant to take care of the good detective.”

“I’m only reluctant to waste my time.” she swallowed the rising nervousness in her voice. “Also, I hope you have nothing to do with the unfortunate death of the Duke.”

Zevran guffawed. “If anyone is suspicious, it is you, my love. You’ve disappeared from the Black Pearl for a couple of hours. Enough time to kill him.”

“I had the interest to keep him alive. He had his benefits,” she snapped. “But this sudden interest of Detective Theirin in--”

Zevran’s finger landed on her lips silencing her. “You worry too much, my love,” he purred. “It harms your beauty.” His other hand propped her chin, lifting her face, his eyes marveling her lines. “And you have to be exquisitely beautiful tonight.”

Solona with a glare moved away from him and opened the balcony door. She felt his satisfied glance on her skin, measuring her every move. His leer burned a mark into her skin like when the farmers branded their cattle before they brought it to the slaughter house.

_This was supposed to be her last job..._

* * *

Evelyn watched her gliding to her boudoir, the theatrical moves as she swayed her hips. Solona took a short glance at her, her eyes filled with coldness and disdain as if she was superior. To the hell with her lies and knacks. Evelyn had her knives and the gun at her side. It would cut anyone’s flesh, even the cold marble of Solona’s skin. Solona had her beauty that no man could resist - maybe even Cullen with his annoying self-discipline. That thought riled something in Evelyn. Beauty or no, Evelyn had her pride. No one could buy that, not unless she let them. And for all her candied words, one dagger to Solona’s pretty, immaculate face to ruin her forever. Nobody needed a damaged whore.

Zevran closely followed Solona, his lecherous glance followed her curves as always. She wondered if they had ever shagged. She was sure Zevran wouldn’t have minded. His dirty hand was always on her. But Solona… she saw the suppressed shudders every time he touched here. Only another woman could have noticed it. Solona had her plausible lies, her alluring gestures, her candied words, but she couldn’t scam Evelyn. She had no more power than a butterfly in a jar.

“She wants me to stay behind,” Evelyn said. Zevran hummed, rubbing his chin thoughtfully watching the closed door. “I could follow her incognito.”

“No need, my dear,” Zevran replied. “My little butterfly wants to soar free for a night, so be it,” Evelyn looked puzzled. Zevran usually held his investments in a short leash. Especially his dearest Solona. “In fact, I have another job for you.”


	6. A Night to Remember

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a NSFW.
> 
> Also, please forgive me for the big hiatus but I was on a wonderful vacation.

Alistair lit a cigarette and waited idly for her hidden in a dark corner far from the beams of the lampposts. He watched as the chauffeur opened the door for her and helped her get out of the limousine, as she adjusted her elegant red dress on her, the white fur shawl draped over her bare arms and shoulders. She exchanged a few ineligible words with the chauffeur before he left. Alistair’s glance met for a moment with the chauffeur’s bloodshot eyes. He saw those eyes before. Not his, but someone else’s, in the darkest hours of lyrium addiction. Those were pure speculations of course, but there was a bone-shaking similarity to when Cullen begged to him to get him just one last dose.

The car rolled away and she was left alone, at least it seemed like that. Alistair was reluctant to step into the light, just observed her as the streetlights made some kind of halo around her. It was hard to believe those pristine looking hands could have killed anyone. Maybe she really didn’t. Maybe she was just the victim of unfortunate circumstances. Or maybe that was she wanted him to believe. He understood what the pompous aristocracy loved in her. She seemed more palatable than a simple whore, but more sinful than their decent wives. Cullen was right. He should be careful with her. But everything about her intrigued him. Maybe he just wanted to have a piece of the aristocracy’s plaything, he didn’t know.

Her feline eyes raised on him, watching her through the thick smoke of his cigarette. As if she just felt he was watching her. Her mischievous smile tugged at the corner of her mouth as her steps brought her to him. Slow and deliberate steps. One hand was brought to her flaming red hair dropping it behind her shoulder, the fingertips brushed her long neck. Alistair would have lied if had told he didn’t find that motion alluring. Only a blind or a fool wouldn’t find it that way. And she perfectly knew that.

“Detective Thierin,” she greeted him. “I can’t say I wasn’t surprised by your invitation.”

Alistair puffed his cigarette as his eyes followed those freckles that dotted her nose and cheeks. “Believe me, sweetheart, I’m surprised too,” he said, his voice flat.

Solona giggled as closed the distance between them. “And what do I owe the pleasure this time?” she purred. “Maybe something more than professional inquiry?”

Alistair found a slight smile tugging at the corner of his lip. He pressed his lips together and forced a serious face. He knew he shouldn’t do this. And he would have lied to say he met her just because of the half sentence she dropped at the Black Pearl. It could have been a trap. It was probably a trap. Then why he was still there walking into it of his own free will?

She was close enough that he could smell her scent, feel her warmth, she still leaned a bit closer. She lingered for just a moment, chin turned up to him, lips so close, her green eyes still searching his crisp gaze. “Well?” she asked.

“I’m off-duty, sweetheart,” he said. His voice sounded huskier than he had intended.

“Shame,” she purred as slowly turned away. His heart was pulsing rapidly, loudly, ringing in his ears and he could feel his breath had grown heavier. “I was hoping you brought your handcuffs. It would have spiced up things.”

She stepped away from him. Alistair cleared his throat and forced some sternness on himself. He had to be careful with her. There were too many paths where this could have led.

Solona strode to the door of the restaurant. She glanced over her shoulder as she stopped at the halfway waiting for him, an eyebrow raised in amusement as he stood there baffled. She must have found his temporary gawkiness entertaining. “I’m starving, detective,” she pointed out playfully.

Alistair dropped his cigarette on the cobblestone and joined to her.

The ‘ _Crimson Orchard’_ was a hot place in The Borroughs. Well, at least Alistair had this belief based it on a banter he accidentally eavesdropped another day when he sneaked out for a cigarette. He had not much experience in these. He hadn’t get out much since he returned to Ferelden, or not in women’s company. He had his regular dive bar with Cullen near the Yard, where they drowned a shot or two sometimes but he rather avoided crowded places or happy people, he couldn’t decide.

The place itself was pleasant. A small, cozy place with a few tables, with red and white checked tablecloth and a candle in a glass vase as a centerpiece, and some separated boxes. There was the smell of cooking food in the air mixed with burning wax and a few days old, decaying cut flowers. He knew she was used to the upscale restaurants and generous gifts, nothing that from the salary of a policeman.

“Are you okay with the place?” he asked as helped her shawl off from her, his hand brushing her bare shoulder, leaving goosebumps behind not just on her, he also felt something shudder across him.

“Oh, absolutely,” she beamed as looked around. “It’s lovely.”

The waiter came and escorted them to their table, a little two-person one, separated by a folding screen. Alistair stepped to pull the chair out for her but the waiter forestalled him. Solona cast a seductive smile on him and Alistair saw as the blush crept on the waiter’s face. Alistair felt something rising in him, dark and unpleasant. _She was playing_ . He had to remind himself. _She was always playing_.  He loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top button. He wasn’t on a date after all.

Solona eyed him settling down, the kind lines of his face, a bit worn and dark around his eyes, probably from the vigil nights. She always imagined him humping over a case file his seedy desk, a coffee mug in his hand, a pen in the other, a stale cigarette in his mouth. The room would be dim, only his table lamp and the neon lights flaring through the window slates would give some light. His tie would be like this, loosened around his neck, wearing a holster around his chest. She idly wondered if there was a one under his badly pressed suit now.

“Do you mind that I ordered some drinks for you?” Alistair hushed her drossy daydream.

“Not at all,” she purred. “I love when a man takes charge.”

Alistair tilted his head, gazing her eyes as the flame of the candle reflected in them. He wondered how many men sat before her the same way he did. Searching for the words, letting her make him her plaything. He had no illusions about her, knew her games from first hand, knowing she had never even cast a smile without a purpose. Still, he found himself watching her curiously as their drink was served. She made men believe she was an open book while she always became more enigmatic than before.

Solona stirred her whiskey sniffed it with a grimace and took it down the table. “Don’t you like it?” he asked.

“I barely drink alcohol,” she pointed out as drew out her cigarette case from her pouch. Her glance wandered on the scar on his cheek.

“Oh,” Alistair hummed. “I could swear you drank a few cocktails in the Black Pearl.”

“It is one of my little tricks” she purred. She had no idea why she told him.

“Interesting,” he hummed again. “Speaking of the Black Pearl. You mentioned something about an urgent need.”

“Please, Detective Thierin, I’m a professional,” she sighed as lit a cigarette. “I never mix business with pleasure.”

“Which is which?” he asked.

Solona leaned closer resting her elbow on the table. Her lips turned to a wicked grin as exhaled the smoke. “This is the question, isn’t it, Detective?”

Alistair grunted in his annoyance. As much as he hated to stuck in her webs deeper every time they met, he wanted it at the same time and this made him feel like an idiot. “You are really something,” he sighed.

“Am I now?” she raised her eyebrows.

“You know, sweetheart,” he said as he also lit a cigarette taking the initial drag. ”I don’t usually have a dinner with a person of interest in a first-degree murder.”

Solona exhaled the smoke, her inquiring glance searching his. “And yet, here you are. Why did you make an exemption then?”

“Let’s just say you have my curiosity.”

Solona chuckled as leaned back to the backrest of her seat. “You know, Detective, you are playing a very dangerous game,” she purred.

He took another drag and placed the cigarette on the ashtray. His eyes was on her green sparkling glance. He _did_ play a dangerous game. and the truth was he had not good enough reason to do it, just a vague connection to two murders he wasn’t even supposed to investigate. But she was the key, he knew, or at least he wanted to believe.

“I love to live dangerously, sweetheart,” he said. And Solona’s lips turned to a wicked smile.

* * *

Evelyn was hesitant to knock on his door. The whole Yard seemed empty. They were after regular hours after all. She found it ridiculously easy to get in with a bottle of whiskey in her hand. Nobody asked her who she was or why she was there at that late hour, or even why she was carrying a bottle of whiskey badly concealed in a paper bag. She only had to drop the name Inspector Rutherford and officers held the doors open for her, often with smirks and sniggers. She wondered if Cullen had regular female visitors at the Yard late at night. No, that wasn’t his style. He was married to his job. If anything, they were pleased he got _some_ female visitors.

Not that anything would happen, Cullen was always a gentleman. Even when he arrested her, he made sure she had been treated well in the custody. He never visited her personally but heard the guards prattling about him that he always asked about the well-being of  a black-haired, blue-eyed girl. The bitter taste of regret filled her mouth.

" _It is time to remind the good detective of your acquaintance_ ," Zevran said. Zevran wasn't a gentleman, and Evelyn wasn't a lady. She was a tool, a pawn on his chess table. He didn't care about her stupid feelings, he only cared about the results. But Evelyn would be damned if she let Solona be the one to do this.

She knocked on the door of his office.

"Come in," she heard him say. Evelyn entered his office, closing the door behind her, even turning the lock with a click. She turned to Cullen who just stared his uninvited, unannounced guest. He was standing at the window, in the infiltrating light of the cold and silvery neon lights, painting his disheveled, golden hair ashen, almost white. She longed to just run her hands through those curls. There was a cup of coffee in his hand and a case file in the other. He was only wearing a slightly crumpled shirt, with a coffee stain on it with a suspender, his empty holster around his chest. He didn't wear a tie. It was sloppily dropped on the table just as his gun. It was uncommonly slovenly of him.

"Evie," he blinked. "What are you doing here?"

His voice saying her name ran through her like thunder. "I came to _celebrate_ ," she said, shrugging. Evelyn walked to the chairs before his desk, and settled down, taking out the whiskey from the paper bag putting on the table. She formed a ball from the paper bag and dropped it in the paper-bin.

Cullen walked to his desk taking down the case file, then leaned his hips at the side of it. "Celebrate what?"

"Don't pretend you don't know," she said. "It is exactly two years today you raided on the gang and arrested me. So, happy anniversary, Cullen."

Cullen sighed, as rubbed the back of his neck. "You and I remember that day very differently if you want to celebrate this.”

“Honestly, I just needed a reason,” she said, working the cork out of the bottle neck. “I miss you.” She heard his intake of breath and raised a finger. “I know,” she said quickly. “You’re a cop, I’m distinctly not an upstanding citizen, technically. I’m not asking for anything more.” She smiled and raised her shoulders plaintively. “Just company?”

“Just company?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Or we can both drink this by ourselves in the same room.”

He rolled his eyes as he walked back to his seat and settled down. "I’m afraid to inform you that it is against regulations to drink on duty."

"Come on, Cullen," Evie snorted. "When do you get off? Duty I mean?"

He gave her a withering look. “How long were you saving that terrible joke?”

“Since the club.”

"Evie--" Cullen sighed, rubbing his bloodshed eyes.

"Just one shot," she cut him off. "Just one shot and I disappear, I promise." She felt a part of her harden within at her words. She probably would disappear. Once she did this, he would never want to see her again. She forced a smile. _Fuck you, Zevran._

She saw the change in his eyes as a smile crept into them despite his stern face. "Just one," he said, pressing his hands on the armrests of the chair heavily as he stood. "I’ll get two clean glasses." He strode to the door. "Don't touch anything, Evie."

Evelyn crossed her fingers before her heart. "Scout’s honor."

"You weren’t a girl scout,” he murmured as he turned to leave.

Evelyn was left alone in the office, her eyes on the case files towering on his desk. She could have told him everything. He would even try to help her. But the less he knew the less he was in danger. At least this way, if anyone was going to get fucked up by Zevran, it was her. So Evelyn stood up and went to his desk, searching for the file the ‘ _Guerrin_ ’ on it.

* * *

They were walking through the Borroughs, heading back to The Rise, to her registered home. He wasn’t holding her, but keeping close to her. If he had any doubts she was different from the other women, he had none now. He couldn’t tell why but she was. He could have said because she was charming and graceful, or because she was laughing on his cheesy puns, or because she was touching his hand from time to time, brushing her fingers across his skin, only intently enough to make him want more. But these were just fragments of the truth. Something lingered around them in the air that Alistair couldn’t deny or explain. Some people called it chemistry. Cullen and himself would have called it a huge problem.

“I’m still curious about that scar on your cheek,” Solona chirpped.

“It’s a souvenir of the military,” he said. Cool breeze wafted around them, making Solona shudder. Without a second thought, Alistair took off his jacket and draped it over her shoulder. Solona cast a grateful smile, and when he turned his gaze away he saw from the corner of his eyes she clutched at the neck of the jacket and inhaled the smell of the collar. He couldn’t decide whether it was genuine or just another one of her tricks.

“Did you serve in the war?” she asked.

“You know, sweetheart,” he began as lit on another cigarette. “People say if you want one to like you never ask about politics or religion. In my case add war to this list.”

“Why do you call me _sweetheart_? You know my name, don’t you?” Solona snapped, taking the cigarette from his hand and inhaled a drag. She grimaced by the bitter taste of the cheap tobacco as handed back.

“I do,” he admitted. “And it makes me wonder of something.”

Solona stopped and looked up at him with her sparkling eyes “Oh?”

He couldn’t help but tucked a stray lock behind her ear, grazing her cheek, and withdrew his hand. Absently she reached up to smooth it back into place, brushing her fingers over the skin he had just touched. He searched the elegant lines her face, traced the freckles on her nose. He wanted to touch her again. It felt so warm and silky.

“Is this your real name? I mean, it is a pretty rare name---” he stammered.

“No, it isn’t,” she smiled slightly, her hands drawing the jacket closer on herself. “In my profession everyone has a nome de plume, as it were. Mine was given by my former madame.”

“Have you ever thought of--- doing something else?” he instantly regretted the question as it left his mouth. “I mean---- oh, Maker’s breath,” he sighed dropping his head, nervously rubbing the nape of his neck.  “I apologize.” he stammered.

She chuckled. Why was it so hard to call things as they were? Solona Amell was a fancy and luxurious but ultimately a _prostitute_. She should have interested him just exclusively in a professional matter. He was sure she saw nothing else but another job in him. She played her regular role accustomed to him. Then why he saw a ginger haired, green eyed girl, who hid under his jacket from the cold of the Denerim night?

She reached out to him and gently traced the top of his fingers with her own, soft and just barely grazing his skin, her eyes followed her move. He had stopped moving, froze, just a warm tendril shivered through him. ”There are things you get used to, Detective Theirin. and when you do you stop asking questions to what you never get the answer. You just accept them,” she shrugged. “Strange, no one else has ever asked my real name.”

“I’m curious about the girl before Solona Amell,” he whispered. He tilted his head and with his other hand, he placed one finger gently under her chin to bring her eyes up to meet his.

Solona softly hummed. “I have the feeling you would have liked her.”

“What happened to her?” he asked. Solona rested her glance on his scar. she would have fabricated some heart-wrenching story as always but she had no mood to lie to him or to herself.

“She is no more. But let’s make a deal, Alistair,” she liked the taste of his name on her tongue. Maybe even too much. But at least acting was easier that way. “One day you tell me the story of that scar, and I tell you what happened with the girl.”

“It’s not a fair deal,” he pouted, his cadence more playful than he intended. “I know the end of your story,”

“I also know the end of your story,” she purred as glided her elegant finger across his scar. Before Alistair could even realized e traced his fingers up her arm, What the hell he was doing?

He withdrew his hand. “I shouldn’t do thi-” he murmured.

She moved quickly, closing the gap between them, and pressed a finger against his lips. “Don’t play if you can’t handle the risk,” she whispered. He placed one hand upon her cheek, wanting to pull her in closer and taste those red stained lips. He didn’t care anymore if she was pretending or not. He leaned to kiss her but she moved her head so his lips landing on the hollow of her neck. He inhaled her scent as deeply as he could, his lips tasted her skin as if she was a drug he wanted to be addicted. He was in her webs again, so deep for a moment he even forgot why he was there. _Fuck_.

Solona looked over his shoulder to the black polished door and the marble staircase led to it. “I live _here_ ,” she whispered. Alistair froze. “I’d love if you came up for a cup coffee,” she gasped. “Or for whatever you want.”

Alistair moved away, despite the protest of his every fiber. His eyes swept across him, the lush curves and perfectly applied paint on her face. _She was just playing_ . He had to remind himself again. _She was always playing._

“I--” he cleared his troat. “I don’t think it would be appropriate.”

“Appropriate?" she laughed as if she didn’t want to believe her ears.

”We should stay in professional. You are under suspicion after all, sweetheart,” he forced sterness in his voice. Solona took off his jacket from her shoulder, carefully folded it into two and handled back to Alistair. That slightly confused smile was still on her face.

“As you wish, Detective,” she said as handed the jacket back to him.

She slowly took the steps to the staircase. As if she was waiting for something.

“So---” Alistair stammered, awkwardly rubbing the nape of his neck. “How the others make the payment--- I mean---”

Solona turned back, rushing to him, crashing her lips to his. It felt so trite but he felt his knees sagging. He couldn't get deep enough into her mouth to satisfy himself. His hips rolled beneath her involuntarily, and her thighs gripped his even tighter. His tongue explored hers, hungry at first, then seeking, then turning into a molten fire as he became consumed and wanted to devour her sweetness. She moaned in his mouth and a low growl rumbled from his throat in an answer.

“I didn’t do this for money,” she gasped as they parted. She moved away from him leaving shuddering cold breezes behind, walking to her door, Alistair’s baffled glance followed her. She turned from the door frame, the mischievous expression disappeared from her face left nothing else but a soft smile. “I did this for pleasure.”

* * *

"Come on," Cullen exclaimed, maybe a bit too loud. "You were the one who always cheated in chess." A board was set up between them, a game already in progress.

He took the last sip and then filled his and Evelyn's glass again. He was on his fifth shot, and going relatively strong. Still, he didn't usher her out after the first or the second. And Evelyn didn't keep her word to disappear, either. Now they were both lost in the warm haze of whiskey. In his office, at the Yard. Playing chess.

She snorted into her glass. "You were so miserable when Skinny Joe won your breeches in Wicked Grace. Don’t be upset you’re losing, honey bee."

"You’ve not won yet, pup," he laughed. “And must you bring up that horrible day?”

"You had to walk through naked the whole den. You were pepper red by the shame," she laughed boisterously, almost spitting her whiskey. "I have to give you a chance to earn back some of your dignity."

"Right," Cullen snorted feeling the alcohol slowing him down. He watched Evelyn as she poured another round for herself. She hadn't changed at all. She wore the same boyish clothes, the only difference they were fancy tailored suits now, not those baggy shirts and trousers with a suspenders and that old cap. She still had that short, messy bob hair and her eyes still sparkled like gems. He wondered if she were happy… Though it was an irrelevant question. He didn't even know if he was happy or not, the day he arrested her. She was the only one who knew he had been undercover. He had no doubt he did what he had to. Got the promotion he had dreamed of. But sometimes, especially since he saw Evelyn for the first time again in that blasted club, he found himself asking the question if it was worth it.

She eyed his cup of whiskey. “You’re… still clean now? Sleeping alright?" Evelyn asked, her voice uncertain.

"I am," he answered. "I still have the nightmares and migraines but I swore that I would never take another dose, if you’ll recall."

“I do,” she smiled, her eyes glittering. “I’m glad.”

Cullen found himself caught up in her infectious smile. He had never talked about this with anyone. Even with Alistair. It was their unspoken pact. He never asked Alistair about the war, and he never asked Cullen about the lyrium.

She sighed. “Unnecessary, though, now that we look back on it.”

"I thought I could handle it. I was young and-"

"Idiotic?" she cut him off. For a moment, her blue eyes laid bare the old wounds. "You know, you could have told me before you let Cory dose you. You rolling in the ground in a fit like that scared me."

"You were the member of the gang," Cullen murmured, the glass tapping on the desk sharply as he set it down. "At first I didn't trust you. Later I wanted to protect you."

"By arresting me for reckless endangerment and causing grievous bodily harm?" she snapped, the rim of her eyes red with the unshed tears. "Very chivalrous of you."

"I wanted you to turn around - to escape. It was the best I could do for you in that situation."

“The _best_ ?” she snorted, and her bitter laughter filled the air as she threw her head back. “You know why I became the bodyguard of an entitled whore? Because it was the choice between a private lawyer and relative freedom, or the DA and a cell in Fort Drakon for the next thirty years. Say what you want but at least working for Cory was _my_ decision. Now I have no choice. I’m even more trapped than I was before! So don’t fucking try to explain me what was the best for me, Rutherford!”

Whiskey from her cup spattered the chessboard. She refilled it and drank it with a vengeance. Cullen shut his eyes, drawing a slow breath. “I hoped…” he began.

“So did I,” she said sharply and set the cup down. “This was a mistake. I thought at the club that something-- I thought it maybe could be like it was.” She snorted and shook her head. “Stupid, I know.” She turned away from him, clenching her fingers into a tight fist to swallow down her rising anger and pain held dormant through the years. "I should go. Bye Cullen."

"Evie, wait," Cullen sighed as moved from his seat, catching her hand before she could reach for her coat on the peg. Evelyn turned back to him, the tears on her cheeked glistened pink in the garish neon lights. He held her gaze, and her eyes softened despite the harsh line of her lips. She wanted it to be like it was. _So did he…_ Caught by an impulse he leaned in and softly pressed his lips against hers.

The kiss was short and caught both of them by surprise. Cullen only wanted to apologize and he had no idea what brought him to kiss her. But now, after a brief moment of doubt, he wanted to do it again. Before he could lock lips with hers she had put her arms around his neck, pulling him in, kissing him with all the fire he remembered in her. Cullen didn’t know what exactly had come over them, but he realized he missed this, even if what he was doing was ill-advised and everything against the police protocols or even common sense. But before he could really finish the thought, her tongue pushed past his lips as she deepened the kiss.

He took her waist, turning her from the door in their kiss, her hips nudging against the edge of his desk.

“Wait,” Evelyn heaved as broke away, moving from him. Her hand wiping away the traces of their kissing. "Are you sure you want this?" Cullen sensed the insecurity in her voice.

He lifted her by the hips, seating her on the edge of his sturdy desk. She tugged his shirt, pulling him into another kiss as she ran her hands through his tousled curls. He heard the clanking sound of breaking glass on the floor, and the clattering of chess pieces knocked off the board. He didn't bother to look. He spread her legs, to make room for himself between them. His teeth softly tugged at her lips like he did so many times before, in another life. “Are you?” he breathed.

“This goes against every station protocol, Inspector,” she purred, her legs crossing behind him to draw him even closer.

“I’m off duty,” he smirked, pressing his growing need against her. His lips found hers, then trailed down to her neck as she arched back with a soft gasp. Her hands skimmed down his body to his belt, starting to undo his trousers slipping her hand behind it. Cullen moaned and buried his face into the slope of her neck, his hands blindly unbuttoning her shirt. His moves were hurried and ungainly, almost tearing the fabric apart. Evelyn also began to peel him out from his shirt with the same urgency as he did as they tossed their clothes into heaps on the floor.

His mind was like a siren screaming to stop but he missed her touches too much to stop. As he got rid of her shirt his hand wandered down over her small perky breasts, her sternum and abdomen. Evelyn arched her back to lean into his touch slowly lay down on the desk, on the case papers, crumpling some under her body, sending some to the floor. Cullen should have cared but he didn't. He leaned over her, planting soft kisses on her neck and shoulder, wandering down between her breasts while his hands fussed with the belt of her trousers to get her free from it. He slid the black fabric down her legs until it spilled on the already messy floor. It was slowly followed by her knickers. A white cotton one. Simple as always. She hadn't changed.

Cullen leaned in to kiss her. His lips ghosted over the point of her chin, down the curve of her neck and into the slope of her shoulder. The kisses cool on her skin, leaving goosebumps behind. He wandered downward to her breasts while his hand massaged her inner thigh slowly up until reached her sex, his fingers tentatively slid across her length, sinking into the heat of her. She moaned and leaned into his touch, her hands entwining in his hair, tugging deliciously in her bliss. She was wet and eager, as always.

Cullen swooped down on her in a kiss to swallow her whimpers as his hands tried to get rid of his breeches. Then he pried her legs wide open and slid into her eagerly.

“Maker," a hiss escaped from his lips. They fit together. They had always fit, her curves against his, her bodies slipping into union so easily.

Evelyn gasped and cursed, her back arching from the sturdy desk. He stilled, letting her settle. She closed her legs behind him to draw him even closer, deeper into her.

His thrusts were slow at the beginning without any rhythm, just tentatively to get used to the sensation. The familiarity of her moans drew him in. It was so incredibly good as he remembered. One of Cullen’s hands slid up her skin, resting just under her sternum and holding her there as he found his pace. The other found her breast, his thumb circling her pert nipple. He listened to her moans and whispers of his thrusts, so loud it even silenced the warnings in his mind. He only heard her sweet voice calling his name, drowning into whimpers of joy.

He knew he wasn't going to last long like this and finish before her, still, he couldn't stop or slow down. Some frantic thrusts later he slid out from her. He stroked himself once, twice, and a groan forced its way between his clenched teeth. He collapsed on her, his muscles still shuddered.

She wrapped her arms around him, fingers running through his hair tenderly, her breath a summer storm in his ear.

"I'm sorry, Evelyn," he breathed against her neck.

* * *

Evelyn was absent minded as stepped down from the sidewalk, not noticing the honking car that could barely avoid running into her. She heard the driver cursing her, the kindest was calling her a ' _lunatic bitch'_. She was definitely a lunatic. A lunatic with a premature hangover, her head throbbing, with sour taste on her tongue.

 _That went well_ , she told to herself as turned into the street where Solona lived where as her personal lapdog, she lived.

He _apologized_. But for what exactly she couldn't decide. For the tumble? For leaving her eager? For the past few years? For all of this? Evelyn didn't have time to ask him or she didn’t even want to hear it. After he finished he hastily put on his clothes, giving her some tissue paper to wipe herself clean. He was silent the whole time, red and awkward as if he had done something shameful. He was a shining detective after all, and this night was a spot on his immaculate resumé.

 _Stupid Evelyn_. What the hell she was thinking. What the hell Zevran was thinking? Now, she slouched home, defeated and empty-handed.

She heard a silky female voice speaking and two shadows standing before Solona's entrance door. Evelyn recognized her in the dim light of the lamppost, hiding behind the broad shoulder of Detective Theirin. Evelyn stilled in the shadows, watching Solona. She seemed different. Her voice was different, her moves were different. Evelyn saw her playing with men enough to recognize it. That she was gambling in higher stakes now to save her skin or it was genuine she couldn't decide. But she doubted the second.

Solona moved away from the detective and Evelyn emerged from her hiding place. The detective said something, from her position she couldn't tell what. But Solona turned back and kissed him. Solona Amell never kissed anybody, she just responded when someone kissed her. At least Evelyn had never seen a precedent for it. She whispered something into his ear and walked to her door.

The detective stood for some pensive moments before walked away, lighting a cigarette. He passed Evelyn, who was hidden in the darkness or he was too bewitched to notice her. It was so easy for Solona. it was so easy with the heart of stone. It couldn’t break or bruise, Evelyn doubted if it even beat.

She was still thoughtful when she entered the apartment. Solona was on the balcony, with her back to Evelyn, not even looking at her when she entered. Zevran watched her expextantly from where he sat on the armchair. Evelyn saw the puffing smoke of Solona’s cigarette. The shimmering fabric of her red dress, simpler than she usually wore when she worked, danced in the night breezes like the flickering fire.

Evelyn’s first route was to the bar. She slammed the first shot and the second. She intended to drink this night into the oblivion. As if it had ever solved anything.

When she poured the third one for herself, Zevran snatched the glass from her hand. "So," he purred, his voice filled with intimidation and impatience.

"I found nothing. He didn't have the case file," she murmured. Before she could even react the glass smashed to the wall beside her head, the flying glass shards cutting her skin.

"Don't lie to me, Evelyn," Zevran roared, his face distorted from rage. ”You know I can’t stand it.”

"I'm not ly-" but before she could finish, the back of Zevran’s  hand caught her across the face. She lost her balance and collapsed on the floor,  the coppery taste of blood filled her mouth.

"Foolish bitch," he kicked her, Evelyn instinctively curled into a ball to defend herself. On the streets, this was the first thing you learnt. "After what I've done for you, you dare fail me like this," he kicked her again. Evelyn screamed in pain. ”Ungrateful. Treacherous. Wench.” He kicked her harder with every word.

"Enough," Evelyn heard Solona yelling, and her shadow towered between her and Zevran. She cast a short glance on Evelyn before turned back to Zevran.

"Step aside, Solona," Zevran growled, his anger vibrating in the air. But Solona didn't move just crossed her hands before her chest. "Step aside or else-"

"Or else what?" Solona cut him off. Evelyn looked up on them, her eyes glistening like shards of frost. "Will you beat me too? I’m so close to make the detective sing to me. Do you really want me to explain him the bruises on me?" she mocked, her lips turned to an insolent smile. "Come on Zevran, do it. Because the only way you can touch her again is over my dead body."

Evelyn saw Zevran raising his hand to strike her. He hesitated, trembling with rage. He just step to her, his breaths deep and angry as grabbed her chin to draw her even closer. "Bring some results, my love," he hissed. "Because next time she won't get away with so easily." He pressed his lips to hers in a violent kiss. "Am I understood?"

"Get the hell out of here," she snarled. Zevran growled as released her with a yank and stomped away, slamming the door behind him.

Solona wiped the traces of his kiss from her lips as strode to a bar, putting ice into a linen napkin. Evelyn pushed herself up, her hand first sliding in the spilled whiskey and the shards of the broken crystal. She yelped as tried to stand up again, watching the puddle of whiskey stained with her blood and stumbled to the sofa, collapsing on it, grunting from the pain. Solona fetched for the chauffeur living in the caretaker’s apartment then followed her to the sofa, putting the bag of ice on her sore cheeks.

"Thank you," she murmured.

Solona went back to the bar and poured a glass of whiskey. ”Don’t thank me. I need my bodyguard,” she said dryly as returned, dipping another linen napkin into the glass and pressed it on Evelyn’s cuts. Evelyn hissed as the alcohol burned her wounds. Solona took her hand away and examined the cuts.”They’re not deep, no need for stitches. Thank goodness. Anders tends to ask too much. Thank you, Samson,” she said to the chauffeur who put the box of bandages and iodine on the coffee table. The man, whose eyes was always bloodshed from his doses of lyrium, bowed and left. Evelyn thoughtfully watched him go.

Solona dabbed some iodine on Evelyn’s cuts before she skillfully wrapped a roll of bandages around her hand.

“That fucker could have beat you too,” Evelyn grunted. “Why did you do it?”

Solona chuckled. ”Unlike you, I know how to handle him. I’m not profitable with bruises. Customers don’t pay for a beaten whore.”

”I really found nothing,” Evelyn murmured, glancing aside as hot tears trickled down her face. She didn’t really know what hurt more. Her bruises or that Cullen treated her like she was no better than Solona. Her voice hardened. “Cullen knows nothing about it.”

”Of course he doesn’t,” Solona hummed reached out for her hand and drove it to her cheeks to hold the folded napkin, soaked with the melting ice. She brought a blanket to cover her. "A word of advice, Evie," she said. "Love always passes away. And you know what is left behind? Bruises and scars. There are no knights in shining armor, just fallible and selfish men. A woman is on her own in this world.”

Solona walked to the door of her room. ”You don’t even know what love is,” Evelyn muttered, resting her elbows on her knees, the blanket hanging limply from her shoulders.

”Believe me, I know it,” Solona snapped.


	7. The Day After - Part 1: Shadows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Graphic Description of Violence

Cullen absentmindedly strolled up and down before the hospital waiting for Alistair, alternately massaging the bridge of his nose or his temple. He had a migraine, which was pretty much a regular thing for him being part of the vast array of  withdrawal symptoms. It was years since the last dose of lyrium, but it still felt like his skull could have cracked. There was no medicine, no therapy that could have helped. Except only one, of course... but he would have been damned if took another dose ever again.

He nervously checked his watch. Alistair was late. which was nothing new but with a headache and the churning in his stomach made him impatient. He tried to not think about the last night. He shouldn't have thought about last night. It was a mistake. He could have played with the idea of the what ifs... but it led nowhere. Time could move only forward and never backward. It was the best for both of them, or at least this was what he tried to believe.

Alistair rushed his steps on the cobblestones through the Old Town of the Burroughs. He knew he was running late, as usual. And of course, as always he had no acceptable excuse and for a time he even gave up to forge one, at least for Cullen. And what he could have said? That he earned nothing new with Solona Amell? Or maybe he didn’t even know what he wanted to earn with the dinner? She was a dead end, somewhere in a reasonable nook of his mind he knew it. And he already knew what Cullen would have to say, and he would have been right. So he just accepted the disapproving glares he shut on Alistair as he turned to the entrance gate of the hospital.

“You’re late,” Cullen noted, a resigned sigh leaving his lips.

"Like that’s a surprise," Alistair shrugged. He ran his eyes over Cullen's disheveled outfit, his mouth turned into a smug. "You are uncommonly ungroomed, Rutherford."

"I had... a hard night," he murmured, still feeling the bitter taste of regret on his tongue.

"Maybe that gives some explanation why our office reeks like a dive bar." Alistair pointed out as searched for something in the inner pocket of his jacket, supposedly, his cigarette case. "What?! Don't look so surprised! I care about my job... sometimes. I was in the office to grab my notes and found an empty bottle of a whiskey in the trash-bin. And sadly it wasn't me who drank it. " Alistair's mouth turned into a smirk. "You have an excellent taste, by the way."

"I can't recall a single time you were in the office on your off-duty day," Cullen said, massaging his temple again, trying to avoid the answer.

"Well, I can't recall a single time when I saw you unshaven," Alistair laughed finding maleficent amusement in Cullen's awkwardness as he rubbed his stubbled chin. "It must have been an exceptional girl," he stated as took out a cigarette. "If she could earn you to be... naughty in the office,"

"What the hell are you talking about, Theirin?" Cullen snapped, his face red with the embarrassment. "Why do you... how do you..."

Alistair laughed. He was uncommonly cheerful that morning as Cullen noticed. "It was a wild guess. But you just gave some certainty. It's okay to be puckish from time to time. I won't tell Duncan, I promise. Even so..." he said as lit the cigarette. "You have my respect, my friend."

"What about your night?" Cullen grumbled, trying to change the subject. He didn't regret it happened, not even a little. But he was ashamed of how he behaved afterward, sending Evelyn away without a word like she was a cheap trumpet from the harbor. But he couldn't say anything that would have made sense. What could he have said? To run away together, like there was no tomorrow? That they made a terrible mistake? Or that thanks for the tumble? Although these would have been still better than apologizing.

The smile froze off from Alistair's  face and he nervously rubbed his neck. "I... couldn't lift her up from all suspicion," he stammered.

"I thought you asked her out to find evidence of her involvement," Cullen frowned.

"Right yeah... couldn't do either," Alistair cleared his throat.."I believe we have a witness to question," Alistair muttered. Cullen eyed his partner as he took a deep drag from his cigarette before he dropped it on the cobblestone, stomped on it and strode to the entrance. He knew that look too well, as Alistair's eyes sparkled like beacons.

"I hope you know what are you doing, Theirin," Cullen murmured.

"I'm about to illegally question an eyewitness and you are my accomplice. And I hope your friend can bring us in her room," he answered as they entered the white door and the odor of antiseptic filled their nostrils.

* * *

Alistair hated hospitals. The smell of death and pain. It always reminded him those first aid stations in the trenches, the screams he heard coming from them, the blood trickling into the mud, and the paramedics and surgeons with their uniforms covered with gut. After so many battles he should have got used to the sight of death and blood. War never changed. The soldiers who fought changed.

He clenched and relaxed his fingers. That damned shaking had returned. It was minor, barely visible but he felt as his muscles slowly got out of his control. It seemed cigarette and whiskey weren't enough anymore.

He was fortunate although. He had these hand trembling and nightmares. He heard stories about soldiers who uncontrollably trembled, foam trickled from their mouth. Like a rabid beast. As if after all they had seen their body just revolted against their weakened mind.  Like everything that they had seen or felt in the trenches, the "shell shock" as those fancy psychiatrists called it, caged their human sense to give place to some primal instinct as if it wanted to leave the decaying body.They were all lost connected by the common fate, drowning in the calmness of the everyday life where nobody understood the demons haunted them, only another lost soul. They were heroes when they returned. Now as the years passed they became an inconvenient reminder of human monstrosity.

They walked through the whitewashed corridor filled with rushing doctors and nurses. Some pretty and young ones turned after them, giggling and whispering to themselves. But Alistair and Cullen didn't even bother to turn after them, just headed to the glassed door at the end of the passageway. They were both committed. Cullen to his work, Alistair... well, he didn’t really know to what…

"I can't believe I am doing this," Cullen sighed. "We are about to violate at least ten protocols of jurisdiction hierarchy. At least give me a good reason to not turning back. Better than Solona Amell," he said as Alistair opened his mouth to answer.

"Maker, Rutherford, don't be such a choir boy," Alistair grumbled. "The artifact was missing in the hotel room, remember it? It was Tevinter."

"And?"

"You don't just buy or smuggle out artifacts from Tevinter, Especially not an artifact from their national collection," Alistair began, his fingers running through his tattered notebook. "Still, it was part of a high-ranked Orlaisean diplomatic package that a member, although a disgraced member of the royal family was supposed to bring home. It is more than a juicy scandal Rutherford. After winning the Northern War, Tevinter's just waiting for a _cassus belli_ to declare war against the South. No wonder Bureau took the case away from us. Ferelden can be the buffer zone between the two countries. Peace is a fragile thing, even between allies."

"How do you know all this?" Cullen glanced at him.

"I have connections at high places," Alistair answered putting away his notebook, his eyes running through the nameplate on the door where they stopped.

_Dr. Anders. Chief Resident._

"You mean your brother has," Cullen commented.

Alistair snorted. "My half-brother." he corrected Cullen. He didn’t like to be reminded of the golden-boy of the family. Cailan, he got everything, the title, the recognition… everything. And what Alistair got, a dingy desk at the police station and a babysitter, in the person of the Chief. He came out from the wrong woman, after all. "Don't you remember, I'm a disgrace to the Institution? But at least my name worths something. It still opens usually closed doors. So, is this enough for you to break some rules?"

“How does this connect to the Guerrin murder?” Cullen inquired.

“The Chalice was stolen from the crime scene,” Alistair searched or his cigarette case when his eyes stuck on the no smoking sign. He grimaced and left it in his inner pocket. He felt the trembling of his hand intensifying so he clenched and relaxed again. His glance landed on his chewed fingernails. His restlessness increased, it was almost as bad as it had been right after the war. “Apparently it was the Joining Chalice of the Grey Wardens.”

“The Chalice is in the Museum of Military History,” Cullen said incredulously.

“The replica of it. The original was in the possession of the Guerrin family. And the Guerrins have a tight connection to the Theirins by friendship and marriage. In fact, my father’s wife was one of them,” Alistair answered. “Didn’t you find it strange that I, the white-washed detective, who was put in his office to solve pity crimes got this case? The order came directly from my father and I report directly to him. He gave strict orders to Duncan. It seems family is important for him after all.”

“Why are telling this to me?” Cullen asked as reached out for the door handle.

“First, because you wanted a reason,” he said. “Second, although I got strict guidelines of secrecy from the Chancery, you deserve to know the details if you as my partner are willing to break police protocols.”

“It still doesn’t connect the murders.”

“No, you are right,” Alistair murmured. “Except the patterns and the method of the murder. But why would anyone steal only one thing from both scenes? Two invaluable artifacts seem unimportant for the uninitiated eyes. So whoever stole them, knew their price.”

Cullen hummed as pulled down the door handle that threw open before he could open and two wide ice blue eyes, framed with black and purple bruises stared at him. Cullen ran his eyes across the stitches on her cheeks, before their gaze met again.

“Evie-” he stammered.

The young girl pulled her hat lower over her eyes with a bandaged hand as walked around him. “Inspector,” she said with a nod of her head as left. Alistair watched Cullen’s confused face as rubbed his neck and looked at the girl as she walked down the corridor.

“Cullen, old buddy,” Alistair heard the cheerful greeting. “Come inside.”

“What was Evie doing here?” he asked as stretched his hand for a shake.

“What people usually do at Emergency,” the doctor shrugged. “She needed my medical expertise. The rest is confidential.”

Cullen hummed, his glance vacant. “Let me introduce you Sergeant Theirin. The detective I told you about. Alistair, this is Dr. Anders. We met… during my undercover job...”

Alistair stretched his hand for a shake. The doctor pulled it to himself immediately, examining his slightly shaking hand as if it was a specimen on a dissection table. “Interesting,’  he murmured.  “You fought in the war, didn’t you?”

“I did. And?” Alistair snapped, barely concealing his annoyance.

“I saw these symptoms enough to recognize. We call it tremulous disease between us.”

He pulled away.his hand, crossing his arms over his chest. He knew his kind, he had the luck to meet many of them after the war coming with revolutionary medicines and methods, it figured most of them were charlatans, but usually too late. When it figured they were somewhere far, leaving more problem behind than it had already been. “We?”

“With my colleagues,” Anders explained. “I worked in a veteran hospital after the war. I saw many fellow sufferers like you. This is the first stage but manageable with proper medication and suggestive therapy.”

Alistair scoffed. He knew the suggested remedies, the therapies. He went through all of these. He knew a lyrium tincture was supposed to take away his nightmares. For a time of course.

“Do you have nightmares? hallucinations?” the doctor asked ignoring Alistair annoyed sighs and snarls. “I have a colleague who has an experimental therapy. She has pro-”

“I’m here because one of your patients, not to discuss my condition,” he cut Anders off. “Please, show me Miss Leliana’s room.”

“O-of course,” the doctor cleared his throat as headed to the door. “Please, follow me, Detectives.”

* * *

Anders got two medical gowns for Alistair and Cullen, reeking from the odor of antiseptics and they followed him bowed head through the corridor as if they were medics blindly trailing the footsteps of the resident. Nobody noticed them. Luckily, it was a too busy day to care about new faces. Injured people unendingly arrived, the nurses and doctors ran up and down like ants in their grooves to take care of them.

“Another riot in the Alienage, this week the third,” Anders commented as looked after another rushing patient bed. A teenager girl laid on it, crimson virulent trickled from the bruise on her forehead. She cried and screamed in a language Alistair couldn’t comprehend. She was like one of those nomad folks the new laws forced in the filthiest slums of the Dregs. Agitators found a soiled land for their ideas in those, heatless, unpowered shacks. It was easy to blame the rich and powerful, especially when it was true. “This Dread Wolf-”

“Mamae,” another scream interrupted the doctor. Another girl arrived, stopping just before the trio.  Her face was distorted from the pain and crying, trying to wrangle out from the hands of the nurses, as they tried to give her some sedatives. The syringe hit her vein and the blood spurted out right on Alistair's white medical coat and hand.

He watched the ruby liquid trickling down his skin and he felt the world narrowing around him. The words and sounds melted into a cacophony, the things blurred around him, only his frantically shaking hand was razor sharp. He smelled smoke and gunpowder, the stink of the dank trenches they stuck for months. Or at least he could have sworn he smelled.

“ _Come one, Aliboy, we are departing_ ,” he heard the familiar and too cheerful voice and an armed ghost passed him. His uniform was still crisp, his face was restless. Some girls pinned flower in his helmet, his mouth whistled a joyful marching song. “ _You don’t wanna miss history, do you?_ ” His handshake became uncontrollable. now and he felt his throat tightening.

“Alistair,” Cullen tugged him, his voice filled with genuine concern.

“I need some fresh air,” he stammered as staggered to the window, his legs trembling, every step was heavier than the previous.

“ _Enemy’s everywhere, retreat,_ ” he heard echoing in the distant as felt stumbling in something and landing in the mud.

Mud on a hospital floor?

_He heard nothing but a beeping sound. He’d heard it before. In the war every time a bomb hit the trenches._

_His hands closed around something hard and metallic. A gun. The barrel was hot and smoking. He must have been used recently. The beeping sound disappeared and soon he heard the blasts around him. Alistair tried to get up but the pain brought him down over and over again. An increasing puddle of blood and rainwater he saw beside of him. His trousers red and soaked. He got a shot in his leg, or maybe more than one, he couldn’t tell._

_“Aliboy---” he heard the whimper and turned to the source. A friend laid next to him, or at least what remained of him,  a stump below his waist. “I can’t feel--- my legs--”_

_Alistair tried to get up again but his attempt ended in the mud again. He heard steps squishing in the mud. He heard words, foreign words. He crawled to his friend but the battlefield suddenly felt too wide and far. The words became louder as well as the sound of the shooting guns. He crawled faster, releasing his weapon, uncaring that he left it in the mud. He needed to reach him. Shadows towered over them, dark shadows, cold and soggy. Black boots passed him, soiled with mud and blood. And he heard a gunshot and his friend’s body jumped a last one before froze forever. Alistair’s hand was stretched, reaching out to him, and he was so close. The blood of his friend splattered on his shaking hand and this was the last thing he saw before a sharp pain and the darkness._

_**He probably died.** _


	8. The Day After - Part II: Sapphire Eyes

His nostrils burned and tears bubbled out from his eyes as the ammoniac stench of the smelling salt filled his nose. Alistair coughed as slowly regained his consciousness and hit him the realization that he was lying on a hospital bed. His trousers felt wet and he didn't want to know why, although the intent smell oozing from the fabric gave him some hint. He was still trembling, bathing in cold sweat, pain pulsating in his temple. He was nictitating by the sudden and hurtful light flooding from the window. The doctor called Anders pushed a syringe under his skin into his veins, something spreading across his body and slowly his muscles relaxed and the trembling eased.

"What did you give him?" he heard Cullen's voice muffled in his head.

"A mild lyrium tincture," the doctor answered as pushed a cotton ball against his skin and bent his arms. "We use it to for epileptic-like attacks."

Cullen suddenly was filled with an uneasy sensation.  Not because of what he witnessed in the corridors, although he had never seen anything like that before. Alistair had uncontrollably writhed on the tile floor, his mouth filled with white foam. A yellow puddle gathered under him. But the worst was his eyes. That glassy and empty glance as if his soul had wanted to leave his body and it had done everything to hinder. He heard stories about people who were in the war having this disease but he'd never thought that Alistair... he knew he had nightmares, but this...

"Lyrium? Are you out of your mind, Anders?" he hissed. He was more concerned about that syringe. The moment that word, 'lyrium’ left his mouth he involuntarily felt the smell of it as sang to him, the small, half-empty vial magnetized his glance.

"Relax, Rutherford. This is a medical tincture, not raw lyrium you dosed yourself with," Anders scoffed. Alistair groaned as slowly tried to sit up. The whole world spinned with him, his mouth flooded with saliva, his stomach roiling.

“I need, I need a bucket or something-” the rest of his words are lost as he heaved over the side of the bed, liquid traces of his breakfast from hours ago spreading on the tile floor. Tears streamed down his weary face.

"Easy, detective, you are still in shock," Anders said as pushed him back on the bed and fetched a nurse to clean the floor and go  for an infusion. "It is an hours and he’ll be like new. Let him rest,” the doctor said heading to the door, placing his hand on Cullen to usher out the room.

The corridor was still crowded with the injured in the latest rebellion in the Alienage. Cullen would have lied if said he knew much about it. These things were usually handled by the city guards, the Department D of the Police. Alistair and himself was part of Department A, although these days he heard rumors a name landing on the desk of the Bureau more and more often in a connection with these riots.

They passed the injured civilians, heading to Anders' office. The Chief Resident’s office was a small austere office, a desk with a lamp and chair, a cabinet filled with vials, accurately labeled, and a huge cabinet filled with patient files, cataloged in strict alphabetical order. Cullen idly played with the thought one file was about the unexpected appearance of Evie in Anders' office that morning. He could give a lot to take a peek at it. Those stitches and bruises…

The doctor sat down to his desk and invited Cullen to do the same on the one where usually his patients did. "What about you, Cullen. Migraines, nightmares?" he asked. It was a professional inquiry, nothing more. Anders' voice was flat and mechanic as if he laid on his examination table.

"Both," he answered with a shrug as it should. The doctor registered it with a nod without any further questions.. "Who is this _Dread Wolf_ you mentioned before?"

Anders cast a surprised glance on him. "Well well, you should be more informed than me. You have no intel at the Bureau?"

"I cut my ties with them," Cullen snapped. The doctor raised his eyebrows, and Cullen felt the biting comment on the tongue of the doctor and only the Maker knew why he didn't give it a voice eventually.

"The Dread Wolf is an anarchist, leading an underground group. If he exists," Anders said.

"If he exists?"

“if you ask me he is fictional. The question is, who created him?”

“Why would anyone make up something like this?

“ _Give the people someone to admire and follow or someone to hate and destroy, and they will unite under your flag,_ " Anders recited the words of a philosopher Cullen couldn't recall the doctor nagged him with during his undercover days. Anders was one of those who had great ideas but short temper. He was the doctor of the poor, a revolutionist, as he liked to label himself. The Bureau although labeled him as ‘ _subversive element_ ’. "Have you ever been in the Alienage, Cullen? Have you ever seen how these people live? Eight-ten people crammed in a smaller room than this? These people have no chance to escape from poverty. Radical ideas spread fast there."

"Some of it is spread by yourself, I assume." Cullen noted.

"I just try to help them if your well-respected police only give them the taste of their baton," Anders slammed on his desk, the anger painted red his face. "These people have the same rights as you and me. But you can see at the corridors what happens if they try to vindicate them."

“The police has declined every petition for a demonstration, and you know that. You simply provoke.” Cullen cut in,” Keeping the peace between the radical political parties and different gangs is more than enough. We don’t need more agitator, anarchist or revolutionists. The Bureau is already watching you, Anders. And you know, not many doctor is willing to work in the Dregs or the Alienage to heal the vagrants.”

Anders scoffed as  leaned back his chair, dropping his pencil on the desk. “Are you threatening me, Rutherford?” he hissed challengingly narrowing his eyes.

“I’m just warning you. Your name came connected with numerous terror groups.”

“I don’t need your advice, sleuth,” Anders spat. “But it makes me wonder if the Chief of Police, or your friend next door knows that why you left the Bureau? That the model citizen was a lyrium addict and the things you did for one more dose. Tell me, Rutherford, whose ass you have to lick clean nowadays for an immaculate moral certificate?”

“Enough, Anders,” he yelled as slammed on the desk and jumped. He felt his pulse quickening and the anger flooding his body. He clenched his fingers, his nails scratched the wooden surface of the desk. But Anders just sunk more on the backrest of his chair, a vicious smirk appearing the at the side of his mouth.

“And Evie, the poor girl believed you and you betrayed her. You’ve never deserved her-” Something broke in Cullen, red mist hazed his mind and grabbed the collar of the doctor’s shirt, yanking him from the chair, over his desk to face him.

“Leave her out of it,” he growled.

The smirk on Anders’ face widened, almost became a snarl. “Police brutality? Watch out Cullen, I may report you,” he chuckled in infuriatingly amused tone. “I’m not from the Alienage, and you and your friend are about to violate police protocols. You couldn’t cover up this one.”

Cullen’s fist tightened around the fabric of his shirt, for a moment even seriously considered to make him taste some real police brutality. He had that composure to not let it happen. They were there against clear orders, so he shouldn’t make a scene. He slowly relaxed his fingers and let Anders go. The doctor chuckled as adjusted his crumpled attire. Cullen rubbed the tension from base of his neck, trying to calm his nerves.

“I’m only here to question the witness, Anders, and we are gone.”

The doctor straightened himself and strode to the door. He opened it and theatrical gesture signaled him to follow him. “Be my guest, Inspector.”

* * *

Alistair still felt dizzy by the lyrium when he, Cullen and the doctor entered Leliana’s’ ward. He kept his head down all the way long to the wards, to avoid the pitiful or prying glances once he couldn’t avoid the hushed whispers as they passed. He must have made quite a show writhing on the floor, pissing under himself. Not that it was a novelty in a hospital.

He still felt the bitter taste of bile in his mouth even after washed his mouth out twice with clean water, maybe a good whiskey and a cigarette would finally take it away after this. He once or twice bent his arm. His muscles hurt. He noticed a nice black lesion forming in the crook of his arm when he slouched the sleeve of his shirt. That damned doctor with his syringe. _Great,_ he thought. _Above everything, I will even look like a drug addict._

Leliana was sitting on his hospital bed, staring out of the window, an opened book in her lap. Her already pale skin turned to chalk-white as she noticed Alistair. his hand swept the book down from his lap, falling on the floor. So she remembered him.

“You have ten minutes,” Anders said as turned on his heel and left.

At first, Alistair just measured the girl. She seemed leaner than in the hotel room, her cheeks more sunken, her sapphire eyes seemed milky and glassy, deep black bags under it. She seemed more of a hallow than a real person. Cullen strode to the fallen book and with an encouraging smile put it on the small nightstand next to the bed. The girl smiled back on him.

“Miss Leliana, I’m afraid we need to ask some further questions,” Alistair began, the girl winced at his voice.

“I--- I’ve already told everything I know,” she muttered, her voice weak and low. Alistair strode to her bed, taking a white chair at the wall and sat down on it. He reached out for his notebook in his jacket. Cullen stepped next to him, bringing another chair to sit down.

“We are just doing some cross checking, Miss. You have nothing to worry about,” Cullen said in a soft soothing voice. Leliana switched her glance at the two men and nodded her head to an uncertain yes.

“Thank you, Miss,” Alistair said as opened his notebook and readied his pen. He cleared his throat to gain a moment, gathering his thoughts. “Please tell me what happened after you left the Black Pearl with Duke Gaspard.”

The girl lowered her head, fixing her eyes on her wrapping hands. She bit her chapped lips, hesitating to answer. “To--- his hotel room. He invited me---” she answered. Alistair registered with a hum as wrote down in his notebook. The girl sunk into silence. He waited her to speak. “We slept---”

“And then?” Alistair asked, trying to encourage her.

“He---- fell asleep. I went to the bathroom to freshen myself. I heard some fidgeting from the room, I thought the Duke woke up, so I finished my prepping soon to return. Then I heard-” tears bubbled from her eyes. Cullen reached for a handkerchief and gave it it the girl. She cast a grateful glance on him, lightly blushing. The girl dried her tears and blew her nose. Alistair waited patiently, although their time was short and melted fast. But she needed her to sing at least a bit for him and he was afraid to she would have retreated in her shell if he pushed her more.

“Go on please,” he nudged.

“I heard a thump and a scream. I--- I frightened. I sneaked to the bathroom door--- it was opened a bit. I--- peeked out--- and---” she burst out into cry again. Alistair let her to calm down, despite the fact he knew he was really short on time. He tapped his pen increasingly nervously to the side of the notebook. He didn’t want to hurt the girl more than it was necessary, she had seen enough to understand. But at that point she was his only lead. He was too desperate to turn back. “There was blood---- so much blood,” she cried, her voice raised about an octave, so high it hurt his ears. “And that man---”

“Could you describe him?” Alistair asked, trying to speed things up.

The girl frantically shook her head. “It was too dark--- he was--- I already told you to your colleague,” she screamed. “I--- I only remember his eyes-- dark and bloodshot”

“Alistair-” Cullen tried to cut him off, but Alistair dismissed him with a gesture. She almost broke the girl, the last thing he needed Cullen playing the knight in the shining armor here.

“Do you remember anything else about him?” Alistair pushed her. “Every detail can be crucial.”

“He wore---wore a uniform,” she said uncertainly, but as the words left her mouth, she sank into silence again, her eyes swirling, she became more white as she were before as if she realized something just in that moment.

“What uniform?” Alistair asked.

“I---I don’t know---” she muttered. “Maybe a hotel uniform--- or something--- it was too dark,” she cried.”Please, I don’t know anything else---”

“Alistair, please,” Cullen whispered to him. “Don’t push her, if the Bureau figures-” _they would be both suspended_ , Alistair finished the unspoken threat.

He sighed as closed his notebook. “One last question, Miss. Did he pay for it?” Alistair asked. Both Leliana and Cullen swapped their eyes on him.

“I--- don’t understand” she stammered.

“I asked if had Duke Gaspard paid for you for your service to have an intercourse with him?”

“Alistair-” Cullen tried to stop him.

“No!” Leliana exclaimed, her voice tinged with pique. “How dare you make such accusations. I’m not a girl like that.”

“I hoped so, Miss Leliana, considering you are not registered as a prostitute at the Vice Department,” he replied. “And we both don’t want the DA to set charges against you for illegal prostitution, do we? So we could help each other out here.”

“What do you want from me?” Leliana cried.

“You told before you had substituted Solona Amell, who is, unlike you, is a registered prostitute.” Alistair raised his voice, it felt so intimidating it even frightened himself. “What does she have to do with the victim?”

“I don’t know--- I got the orders from Zevra--” she put your hands at the side of her mouth.

“From who?” the girl frantically shook her head, her face turning to red from crying.

“Alistair-” Cullen hissed.

“Answer me, Miss Leliana,” Alistair thundered. “Who gave you the orders?”

“You have no idea with who you’re dealing with,” she hissed.

“A _name_ , Miss Leliana, I only want a name,” Alistair pushed her. “I can only help you if you help me.”

“You can’t help me,” Leliana screamed, “I’d rather go to jail for illegal prostitution than ending up dead in a canal?”

“ _Sergeant!!!_ ” Cullen thundered as jumped up from the chair. “Enough.”

“Cullen-”

“I said, enough,” he ordered. “Leave the room immediately.” Alistair daggered a deadly glance on his partner as stood up. He glared him for a few moment. Cullen stood still, making him remember despite they were partners, he was his superior after all, he had every right to dismiss him. So he could do nothing then release a growl of displeasure and walked away.

“I’m sorry, Miss Leliana-” he heard the apologies of Cullen as the door closed behind him. He walked down the corridor, quickening his pace to leave that damned hospital as soon as he could. He wanted nothing else but a shot of whiskey and a good cigarette.

* * *

Alistair slammed another shot down, sitting in his regular box in the ‘ _Two Crowns_ ’. He stared the ashtray on the dingy table, filled with cigarette stubs. He tried to gather his thoughts after his visit to the hospital. He mind was still fuzzy, feeling whatever medicine he got. He didn’t even ask if he could drink. He didn’t even care. His thoughts were around the two sapphire eyes, frightened to death.

Leliana didn’t bring him closer to the solution. maybe just with a baby step. And Cullen… he had to be the knight in shining armor, as always, even if he was so close… to what exactly? A name? He was somewhere deep glad that Cullen stopped him. It was… if nobody else, he should have understood the girl. He stretched and relaxed his fingers. They were trembling.

“Miss Leliana won’t raise an official complaint about police to mistreatment,” Cullen said as sat down at the other side of the box, gesturing to the bartender to bring him his regular. “Although she has every reason to do so.”

Alistair took the last cigarette from his case and lit it. He took a drag, deep and long, until the smoke burned his lungs. “I knew you could convince her to not do. You were always a heartbreaker, Rutherford,” he mocked.

“You were out of line, Theirin,” Cullen snapped, but biting the end of his reprimand, waiting for the waitress to put down his pint of beer and leave. He nervously reached for the glass and sipped. “What were you thinking?”

“I think, the girl knows more than she lets on,” Alistair noted as took another drag. “I think, that man who was in the hotel room was at the Guerrin mansion. I think Solona Amell is involved in some way.”

“Drop this already. You are obsessed with this woman,” Cullen snapped, dropping his glass down on the table, louder than he should have, bringing unwanted attention to them. The dive bar became very calm every eye fixed on them but a moment later everyone returned to their own stuff. Cullen sighed as turned to his friend again. “ You can’t prove anything on her. Let her go.”

Alistair took another drag, even deeper than before. He choked on a puff of smoke. “I--- can’t,” he said among coughs. “She is the key, I feel it in my guts.”

Cullen eyed his partner as took another sip from his beer. He put down the glass and leaned back on the backrest, slipping his hand into the pocket of his trousers. He touched something, something hard and smooth. It was a chess piece he found on the floor of his office before he left to the hospital. He didn’t even remember to put it away.

“Or you want to feel it,” he muttered. Alistair snapped his eyes towards him. Cullen leaned forward. “Alistair, you have already violated every regulation you could. If you want to keep this case, leave Solona Amell alone, for both of your sakes.”

Alistair took a deep drag and exhaled the smoke right into Cullen’s face. He saw his golden eyes daggering through the thick smoke. He was unflinching, his disapproving face lace a marble statue. “You forget who assigned me to this case, Cullen.”

“Do you think your father would jeopardize the family’s name if you incriminated yourself?” Cullen hissed. “Solona Amell is a person of interest at least one first degree murder. And if your ‘ _guts_ ’ are right at least in two. And you are dallying with her, going on a date, and who knows even what.”

“What are you implying, Cullen?” Alistair asked, his annoyance obvious.

“That you should be very careful, Theirin. Solona Amell … she knows how to handle you, or me or any other man. That is her profession, for Andraste’s sake. But do you know how to handle her?” Cullen’s fingers clenched around the chess piece. “She can-” Cullen bit the end of the sentence, drowning it in a resigned sigh. He knew where this could lead, and he didn’t want Alistair to walk down the same road he did. “Believe me, it is not easy to let someone go.”

Alistair leaned back, taking another breath from his cigarette. He thought about that kiss he shared with Solona. He still felt the ghost of it on his lips. Cullen was right. He should have let her go. Or at least let someone else follow her lead. He knew it wouldn’t look good in his file. Even Duncan couldn’t have washed him out from everything. And his father… he would maybe send him away somewhere at the countryside to be hidden. Maybe to Redcliffe. He had practice in hiding Alistair away from the rest of the world. Alistair even saw the headlines. _‘The royal bastard policeman and the infamous prostitute’._ The tabloids would have killed for a scandal like this. Still, despite every common sense he wanted to see her again. He wanted _her_.

He stomped his cigarette on the ashtray. “Nothing happened to her, Cullen,” he lied, slightly frightened of how easy it was. ‘I’m not an idiot.”

“Good,” Cullen said, although didn’t feel convinced. He drank his beer and put the glass down with a strong knock. He fumbled in his pocket and dropped some crumpled banknotes on the table, generously tipping the bartender. “By the way, the name you wanted to know, it is _Zevran Aranai_.” Cullen said. Alistair snapped. “Miss Leliana was more cooperative with me in private.”

Alistair chuckled. “Your indomitable charm, Rutherford.”

“More likely I’m wasn't scaring her half to death,” he snapped. “You owe me big for this one.”


	9. Carnal Sins

_ "Get on your feet, girl. **Now** ," Solona heard the merciless order and she tried to get on her bloody, swollen feet filled with water blisters. She had fallen for the tenth time that day in that ridiculously high-heeled shoes and she couldn't tell how many time her ankles splayed. She was surprised they didn't break. _

**_Back and forth. Back and forth._ **

_ Walking in the room back and forth in endless circles. A book of poems in her hand, reciting, another on her head, balancing on her head to not fall down. _

_ "I can't," she sobbed. "It hurts." _

_ Madame Chaudron with an annoyed sigh stood up from her spacious velvet sofa, putting her long brass pipe on the mahogany end table. Her high heels knocked on the polished floorboard, every step louder than the last one. Slow, calculated steps. This was worse than if she had stomped like a furious gavel on the judge's podium to demand order. Solona couldn't look up just stared at the wood grains on the floorboard and listened the steps of the madame, rhythmical like the beatings of a heart. The black leather boots stopped before her and manicured fingers grasped her chin and lifted her face. _

_ "You'll have to endure bigger pain than this, dear," she began. She smiled. Always smiled. It was soothing and candied from the distance but as someone gets closer it felt like a snarl of a wolf, ready to devour. Solona was always close to her. "Some of the men have simple needs. A company, some glazed word, a soothing touch, while other has more exquisite or exotic taste. You'll have to satisfy every need," The woman's hand grabbed her wrist and yanked her into standing. Solona yelped. It was hurtful. Her swollen ankles barely held her, but her fear was much bigger than her pain. _

_ "Why?" Solona risked the question. She saw Madame Chaudron's glance hardening. _

_ "Do I really need to explain it again, dear?" she sighed. She released her wrists and swept the stray locks from her face, the soaked tresses her tears stuck to her face. The move was gentle and caring, still, Solona's muscles tensed as if the woman held a knife to her throat. "This is your only weapon, dear. Your words, your gestures, your moves. Use them well. You have to make an impression. You have to make them only see you from the very first moment you enter." _

_ "I thought I have to make them to remember-" the smack of the slap lingered in the thick, perfumed air of the boudoir. The trace of the woman's fingers was angry red on Solona's freckled skin. _

_ "They have to notice you to remember you, stupid girl," her voice was calm like a purr, still intimidating. "You have only one chance." _

_ Madame Chaudron reached out for the books on the floor and handled to Solona. For a few moments she just stared the heavy, and frowzy book, then she raised her eyes on the madame, her eyes glinting. "What if I don't want to make an impression?" _

_ She braced herself for another hit, but it never came. Madame Chaudron just smiled as released the books, let them to fall and scatter on the floor. "Then you can leave, return to your life if you have ever had one." The woman turned away from her striding back to the sofa and sat down. She lit her pipe again, drawing a breath, observing the girl through the thick, fragranced smoke. Solona's eyes fixed on the opened books lying on the floor. She was silent. _

_ Madame Chaudron chuckled, it was sharp on her skin like needles pierced her. "You have nowhere to go, dear, do you?" Solona felt the tears gathering in her eyes. She gulped and squeezed her eyes. She promised herself to not cry ever again. "You can go, you are free as a bird. But you have nobody to care you, nowhere to go and most likely ending up in a low-run dive bar, tapping beer or selling your body to drunken nobodies, or you can stay here and let me to teach you. I can give you the whole world, if you let me, dear. The choice is  _ **_yours_ ** _. _

_ Solona's breath quickened, she tried to swallow the painful knot in her throat. She knew the truth of her words. She had nowhere and nobody to go to. She crouched and took the books in her shaking hands, and straightened. She put the heavier one on her head and opened another one. She felt the satisfied smirk of the woman on her skin. _

_ "That’s enough for today," Madame Chaudron said before even a sound could leave her throat. The air stuck in Solona's lungs as the woman reached for a bell and rang it. Soon a girl entered. _

_ Solona had seen her before, doing her chores in the brothel. Cleaning, scrubbing the floor, emptying the ashtrays in the salon. She never spoke, never even looked up or moved only when she was ordered. Obedient, like a well-trained dog. _

_ “Take care of her, Ariris,” Madame Chaudron ordered as stood up. The maid nodded. She once again walked to Solona propped her chin and examined her soft lines and red-rimmed green eyes. Solona was waiting for her to say something sharp as a twisting dagger but the woman just sighed before released her once again. The knocks of her heel were like a sledgehammer in the stillness of the room. Solona watched her as she passed the maid and closed the door behind her. _

_ She kicked the high-heeled shoes from her feet a moment after the door shut closed, and dropped the books in a dusty corner. Among groans, she limped to the couch and fell down. She was surprised she could still walk. The maid rushed to her and helped to rest her swollen leg on the sofa. Solona hissed as the maid touched one of her broken blisters. _

_ “I’m sorry,” the maid gasped and moved her hand away. Solona raised her eyes to the girl. She looked like a ghost who trapped there to haunt. Her skin milk white, almost as bright as her silver hair. Her eyes colorless and eerie told the pain of thousand stories. With her black dress, she was like a figure from a black and white film, as if she just stepped off a movie screen. Only the bruises on her hand gave her some color.  _

**_She was pretty, though,_ ** _ Solona noted for herself. She idly wondered why she was a maid. Madame Chaudron’s brothel was famous for the vast variety of curiosities. And this girl would have definitely made an impression that was the crucial requirement of the establishment.  _

_ Solona smiled at the girl as reached out for a box filled with cigarettes. She picked that habit recently. The smoking. Madame Chaudron was generously providing bad habits. Her establishment was the Eden of debaucheries where nothing was forbidden. Alcohol, lyrium, sodomism, love potions... you could get everything you want if you had the money to pay for it. And she still had a license, despite the strict moral laws of Orlais. Well, the Chief of Val Royeaux’s Police Department was on her exclusive clientele. The man had exquisite taste, as Solona heard… young boys… preferably virgins. The model citizen, the model husband with two children, loved to fuck men. It was fortunate that nothing left the walls of the brothel… unless Madame Chaudron wanted it... _

_ “My name is Ariris,” the uncertain voice derailed her thoughts. The cigarette was still unlit between her fingers. The maid rushed for a match. She was well-trained, indeed. Solona wondered if by Chaudron… or by somebody else. _

_ “Solona,” her reply was curt. The girl smiled faintly at her. Something was in her, something painful. And the one thing Solona had learned that only one thing was real. _

* * *

Her high-heeled shoes tapped rhythmically on the marble floor, disturbing the respectful silence of the cathedral. Not the knocking sound but the whirlpool of whispers rising behind her as she walked down, suppressed even the gradual of the altar boy. Solona Amell didn’t belong to the law-abiding society with respectful jobs, waiting for the mass every Holy Day. No, she belonged to the house of Maker as a Chantry sister belonged to a brothel.

She swept her eyes across the pews, as walked down the aisle. The men usually avoided her glance, burying in their copy of the Benedictions. some of them knowing her disrepute or fame depending the company they moved in, the others because they had the luck to enjoy her favors. The others cast some so indecent leers she was surprised those murals on the walls didn’t crack by the wrath of the Maker. The women shot dagger glares at him, she was sure, plenty of them wanted her to rot in hell. She found it amusing. The pretentiousness. The epitome of human nature. No matter it was a beggar or a countess they all pretended something. They all tried to fit in their roles in the society. But she… everyone knew who she was and this brought the presumption they knew her. And she had no pressure to prove the contrary. This social nakedness gave her an impenetrable black veil, and through it, people only saw obscure shadows presuming it was the whole picture.

A man in black frock waited for her at the end of the aisle, his hand clasped behind his back. Solona’s lips turned to a half-smile as reached him. The priest didn’t say anything just showed her the way. She felt the glances on herself as they left to the lateral, to the parsonage. and she idly wondered if those zealous, whose belief in the dedicated and merciful Chantry was unwavering, even just surmise what happened behind those closed doors.

The man in a frock, the Cardinal’s clerk had known the ways, the ceremonious routine of these ‘private audiences’ or ‘confessions’ or whatever they marked it that day in the schedule of the Cardinal. He led him through the spacious, richly adorned corridors, filled with golden filigrees and colorful murals, to a high two winged door. It led to an office. A giant polished oak desk in the middle, over it a painting of Andraste, her disapproving glance on Solona. She sneered on the painting right into the face of the holy lady as removed her small, veiled hat.

The clerk gestured to her regular place and with a statuesque face bowed and left her alone in the high and spacious office. She unbuttoned her black coat while perused the spine of the books on the bookshelves. His Excellency had gained some new gems since her last visit, she noted and removed her black leather gloves. She sat down at one of the chairs - uncomfortable, as always - and kicked off her shoes, and removed her silk hosiery then stood up again and took another circle in the office while unzipped her skirt and unbuttoned her blouse. Her eyes scanned the artifacts, the chasuble, neatly prepared for the evening mass on a stand. She chuckled. The absurdity of this had always amused her.

She went back to the desk, neatly placed her clothes in a pile, adding her lingerie on it and sat on the white fur carpet, prepared for her before the desk. Her back was to the door. She sat on her feet and placed her hands on her lap, one on another, and waited, as always. and soon she heard the door opening and the soft steps approaching her, stopping right behind her. Her eyes were fixed on a small golden clock on the wall. It was midday. She heard the bells ringing for a mass in the tower.

“Forgive me, Father, I have sinned,” she said, her voice monotone. She knew the script of these meetings.

A cane smacked on the desk, the sound filled the spacious room and lingered. She remained unmoving, her glance on the lazy hour hands.

“Confess, my child,” she heard the voice behind her, a strange mixture of cruelty, excitement and caring.

The minute hand of the clock ticked on. 

* * *

“You have thirty minutes,” the grumpy old caretaker woman yelled through the door she’d just closed a minute ago.

Evie hissed as the hot water hit her still bruised skin as she dipped in the tub and slid under the surface. It always felt strange. The feeling of pressure of the water still floating. The world was dull in the under. There was silence, even in that small tub, she only heard mumbles. It was strangely soothing.

She opened her eyes and saw a slender female naked figure standing over the tub, her arms crossed. She went on the surface and looked at the girl, whose dirty and freckled nose crunched as tried to snuffle away a sneeze. Her blue eyes wickedly glinted.

“You have five minutes, Trevie,” she said.

Sera was a street rat, just like Evelyn. They met back on those days she was part of Cory’s gang. What her mother always said? The wind gathers the garbage? Well, that was true on their little company. Murderers, rapists, thieves and street urchins like Sera and herself. They were outside of the Law, still, in their own way, they respected a Code.

“What?” Evelyn grumbled, “That’s unfair.”.

“That’s the rule, ya know,” she said as hopped on the tumbledown chair, tousling her already messy, unevenly cut blonde hair. “You got the hot water, so I have the more time to dip in your smudgy water.”

Evelyn grimaced as reached for the soap. She hadn’t got the luxury of the own bathroom. She had a small room with a single bed and a basin with a pitcher in what the water was always cold. She only had a chance to take a bath like that once a week, when Solona was confessing, or whatever she did in the cathedral. Being fucked by one of those holy pots, she presumed. What else would a whore do there? Seeking remission?

Involuntarily Cullen slipped in her thoughts. He was used to be in that small church in the Dregs every single holy day back in those days. He dragged her with him once and twice but she never listened. Her attention always wondered on the murals and stained glass windows and secretly imagined as one day she would walk down that aisle to the altar in a white dress. That was before the handcuffs clicked around her wrist and a soft voice she knew too well read her rights.

“Ya still working to that snooty little trollop, no?” Sera asked as picked the dirt out of her short cut nails. Evie nodded, as washed away the soap foam from her body. “That wench must shit gold being salable like that.”

Evelyn didn’t answer just soaped her body again. Since he worked for Zevran, she always felt dirty.

“We still need people, ya know,” Sera said. “We could use ya, gurl. You know the ways around.”

Evelyn sighed as washed another layer of soap from her body. “And can you give me food or shelter? Or anything? You’re a bunch of dreamers.”

“Yeah, yeah, we don’t have fancy clothes and fancy cars, but we watch each other’s back,” Evelyn grimaced as got out from the tub and reached for the towel having questionable cleanness.

“Yeah, that would have been handy… but you were nowhere...” she mumbled under her nose. She hastily put on her clothes. “I better get going.”

“Ya know where to find me, just think about it, Trevie,” Sera yelled after her as the door closed behind her.

The bathhouse was near the cathedral, only a few blocks of a walk. Evelyn took her steps fast but not because she was afraid of being late. She still had half an hour. But maybe this time she could walk fast enough to leave behind those shadows chasing her. She thought the day Cullen return to her life would have been something like a fairy tale. A knight in shining armor to rescue her. But Solona was right, there were no knights in shining armor.

As she turned the corner saw the limousine parking at the gate of the cathedral. The chauffeur, Samson leaned to the side of the polished car, smoking. He raised his bloodshot eyes on Evelyn and slipped away a bit to give her some space. She leaned against the car next to him. The chauffeur offered her a drag from his cigarette, according to the smell, it was made of elfroot, but she refused.

“Anything unusual?” she asked.

“No, but she still has time there,” Samson thoughtfully inhaled a drag. “Do you think the old rake murmurs a penitence during it?”

Evelyn shrugged lazily. “Maybe…”

She massaged her sore stitches. It was a bad habit, she knew, but couldn’t help. Samson stole a glance at her. “She defended you,” he noted.

Evelyn shrugged again. “She needs me.”

“She had bodyguards before. Your kind comes and goes,” Samson took the last drag, keeping it down for a while before exhaling it. “And she never cared,” he noted shrouded in the smoke. “I doubt she cares about anyone besides herself.”

Evelyn frowned. “It doesn’t make sense, you know.”

Samson crossed his arms over his chest, his thoughtful glance fixed on the cathedral gate. “Zevran Arainai became who he is because he is always one step further than anyone else. But now he lost this advantage. He has no idea where the chalice is… and his little whore is not helpful this time.” he chuckled. “Many want to see him dead. Many want him to see rot in prison. I bet you are one of them, just as I am.”

“And?” Evelyn growled, massaging her temple. “I’m a little fish, just as you are.”

Samson laughed. “Sometimes littlest fishes have the largest teeth.”

* * *

Solona sat on the velvet baroque couch, wearing her clothes again and read a book, while listened the theatrical sighs of the Cardinal who lumped over his papers. She peeked at the clock on the wall. Twenty minutes left of their well-choreographed meeting. She ignored the second sigh, louder than the previous one and lazily turned a page, pretending she was being preoccupied with her reading.

The door has opened and the clerk entered with a tray, a kettle and two teacups on it. He put it down on the coffee table next to Solona alongside with a crystal ashtray. She looked up from her book to the clerk in the black frock, his strict still apathetic expression as bowed to her and left. So dutiful and discreet.

Solona took out her cigarette case and lit one and returned to her book waiting for the third sigh. It soon arrived as the Cardinal signed another decree. She played her part with blasé proficiency like the actress who had to play the same role over and over again, every single night. She breathed a deep drag, put her cigarette on the ashtray and turned to the kettle to pour some hot water on the prepared tea leaves. “Is something bothering you, Your Excellency?” she asked, her usual question as reached for two sugar cubes with the tong and poured some cream into the amber liquid as the Cardinal liked.

The man looked up from his papers and his lips turned into a soft smile as looked at the girl. “My dear, how many times I have to tell you to call me Roderick,” he replied.

Solona chuckled as stood up and brought the tea for the Cardinal. Actually, she pitied the man. The only intimacy he got was that one hour with her while she pretended to be her wife or daughter or whatever he wanted, who he could punish or who listened to his problems that nobody did in the Chantry. He never touched her, just his cane did.

Solona swallowed a hiss of pain.  _ That idiot hit too hard with the cane. _ She thought.  _ It would leave marks for days. _

“As much as I’d like to, I’m afraid I can’t, Your Excellency. Formal relationships protect us from more… mundane feelings,” she chirped as put down the porcelain teacup on the desk. “It is for your own good.”

The man turned to her, his fingers played with his fountain pen as his soft glance settled on the girl. “I’m afraid you are wiser than me, my dear.”

“Are you sure, Your Excellency?”  Solona sat on the end of the huge desk, crossing her legs and ask her question again. “Is something bothering you?”

The Cardinal sighed as dropped his head and shook. “The Alienage,” he growled. “We have to close the church for an indefinite time and have to find a new place for Father Solas to serve. Yesterday some folks set the pauper asylum on fire. The leader of the Chantry sisters in Ferelden, the personal friend of the Divine, burned to death.” the man dropped the pen on the table, some ink spilled and stained the documents on the table. “We are lucky the Most Holy didn’t order an Exalted March after last week they attacked our clinic during a rebellion and massacred everyone. Not just the sisters but the patients too,”. He rubbed his weary eyes, though his voice didn’t testify his worriedness. He talked like he was complaining about finding a dead fly in his soup. It felt more annoyed than regretful. “This Dread Wolf… his agents agitate the vagrants to bring back the old beliefs and deny the Chantry.”

“The  _ Dread Wolf _ ?” Solona snapped her head. From where this name was familiar?

“An anarchist operating in the Dregs. You probably read about it in the papers,” the Cardinal growled through his gritted teeth, raked his fingers through his face before it regained its usual devoutly muffin face. He smiled at the girl and his fingers skimmed over his knee peeking out from her skirt. Solona didn’t let her surprise settle on her face by the man’s suddenly came intimacy. 

“I believe this incident affects our liaison, dear,”  he let a resigned sigh leave his lips before a soft smile settled on his face. “Her Holiness called me back from service. I’ll leave Denerim next week.”

“I’m devastated to hear,” Solona said, strangely, she really felt like that. The Cardinal had his benefits. As her every client had their benefits in their own ways, but him, well he had been more useful than the most… and she only had to endure a few fast-healing bruises. “I will miss you terribly, Your Excellency,”

The man chuckled. “I'll pretend that this is true, “He glanced at the clock on the wall,” and I’m afraid our time is coming to the end together, my dear. It was a pleasure to enjoy your company, as always.”

“Likewise, Your Excellency."

The man chuckled. “You could call me Roderick, just once, my dear. Take it as a last wish of an old fool to a young lady.”

A wicked smile widened on Solona’s face. “If I were a lady I wouldn’t charge extra for that,” she tweeted playfully.

The Cardinal chuckled again and opened the drawer of his desk, giving a brown blotter to Solona. She satisfiedly registered in herself the name on it.

_ Alistair Theirin _

“Since I leave, our other little business is out of date,” he said.”Consider this as a farewell gift.”

“You are too kind, Roderick,” Solona beamed.

“Was it that hard, dear?” he laughed and he reached into his drawer once again, taking out another two folders. “And here is your usual payment.” Solona opened the two blotters and read the headlines. Yes, Cardinal Roderick  _ definitely _ had his benefits. “I always wondered what are you doing with these papers.”

“I only use it for bad things,” she winked as stood from the desk. The man followed her and took his hand to exhale a soft kiss on the back of her hand. Another touch. His Excellency was very sentimental that day. The inevitable always made men sentimental.

The gong of the clock interrupted them and with the precision of a clockwork as it silenced, the huge two winged door opened and the clerk stepped in, his hands behind his back, waiting for Solona to escort out in pontifical silence. Solona curtsied before the Cardinal released her hand and strode out the door.

“It was a pleasure to have a business with you, Your Excellency,” she beamed as turned to the door.

“Can I count on your discretion, my child?” Solona’s lips turned into a telltale smile as nodded and left, behind her the clerk closed the door. The Cardinal worriedly sighed as looked on the Divine’s decree on his desk.

_ Relocation Order of Seeker Cassandra Penthagrast of the Inquisition. _

* * *

Holy days were always the same at the cathedral. The chant of the choir filling the high walls, the scent of incense and wax hanging in the air always comforted Cullen. This place was constancy in the hectic world around him. No matter what happened to him, he always had his confession that day. He committed the same crimes over and over again and got the same penitence over and over again. Here, nothing changed. Outside the gates, everything felt falling apart.

They had no breakthroughs in the investigation and time flew away between their fingers dangerously fast. And Alistair with his obsession of that… courtesan didn’t make things easier. He didn’t realize how thin ice he was on. Or he did but as always he didn’t care. Either way, this could have ended too many ways.

An unfamiliar sound, tapping of high heeled shoes on the marble floor, and a scent that banished the comfort of incense and wax.  _ Solona Amell. _ An uncommon sight in the Maker’s house. As if she knew he was watching her, she raised her eyes on the detective, and her lips tugged to a half-smile. He wondered if she knew how thin ice they were with Alistair. Or did she even cared about anything or anyone?

She passed him, her eyes sweeping through him as walked to the gate. Not a word, just that telltale smile on her face as if she was always a step ahead. 

“Miss Amell,” he called after her for some fast coming intention. She looked back over a shoulder, smiled on him again but didn’t stop.

“ _Miss Amell_ ,” he ran after her into the light of the streets, painful to his eyes accommodated to the dim light of the cathedral. She didn’t stop, just strode to her car in fast but deliberate pace. She didn’t run away from him, just ignored him.

“MISS AMELL,” he yelled  The woman stopped but didn’t turn. She fussed something in her back, and then the unmistakable clicking sound and smoke puffing up from her silhouette in the midday sun.

“What can I do for you, Detective Rutherford?” she asked as slowly turned to him, inhaling her cigarette. “Usually Detective Theirin questions me, and no offense I like it that way.”

Suddenly the words stuck in him. He didn’t think further than calling her out… for what exactly? “It is a strange place to see you, Miss Amell,” he said at last.

She frowned, but her eyes glinted in amusement. “Is it against law to go to the church?”

“No, of course not,” he muttered.

Solona Amell sighed as stepped to him exhaling the smoke into his face. Cullen grimaced as tried to hush away the fume. “Then I suggest you to get to the point, Detective.”

“You-” he hesitated. Did he have any right to intervene? He had if it led the investigation to a dead end. “You’re an intelligent woman,” he began.

“That’s not a thing I’ve been ever accused of,” she laughed.

“Alistair Theirin is my colleague… and my friend,”

“And?”

“I understand you mutually show interest to the other,” he said.

Solona Amell inhaled and exhaled a puff of smoke into his face again. “Indeed,” she admitted. “But I fail to see your involvement in this.”

“It jeopardizes the ongoing investigations.” he straightened. “It is ill-advised for him to maintain any acquaintance with a-”

“Suspect?” she cut him off.

“A person of interest.”

The girl chuckled. “You are overestimating my importance, Detective. Also as I remember I was more than willing to answer your colleague’s question, so you can’t charge me with anything,” she looked behind her back, to a small figure standing at her car. A short black hair and a pair of icy blue eyes simmering under the shadow of a fedora hat. Cullen felt his heart suddenly racing in his chest. “I shouldn’t be your concern. Detective Theirin shouldn’t be your concern. You have enough skeletons in your closet to take care of, don’t you think?” Her glinting eyes narrowed as observed him.

Redness crept on his cheeks. “That’s none of your business, Miss Amell,” Cullen growled through his teeth

“Then I think we understand each other’s situation,” she replied as dropped the cigarette on the cobblestone and stomped it. “Let’s not stand each other’s way, it would be better for everyone.”

“You are on a thin ice, Miss Amell,” he snarled. He surprised how intimidating it sounded, rather than a warning. “It can easily cost him his career if he becomes compromised.”

“Detective Theirin is a grown man and more importantly he is not you,” she looked over her shoulder looking on the figure standing at the car and then back at him, a wicked smile plastered on her face. “Come off the high horse, Detective. Having an intercourse with someone  _ you _ sent behind bars? At the Yard? In your office? I wonder if you were just intoxicated or drugged too?”

Cullen stepped toward her, both of his hands clenched into a fist beside his body. “Be careful, with your allegations, Miss Amell.” he hissed his voice wavered in anger.

She chuckled showing no sign of falter. She closed the remained distance between them and leaned to his ears. Her lips brushed his skin, he felt it turning into a smile “Then be careful with your threaths.”


	10. The Champions of the Just

The freshly poured milk whirled in the steaming coffee. Alistair thoughtfully watched as the whiteness merged with the blackness into a velvety brown. The aroma filled the stuffy room. There was a long time he was in that little maid's room attached to the kitchen. Maybe the last time before the night he sailed out to the war. When he came back and promised the stars from the sky to a gullible girl just for a pastor hour on the worn-out linens ingrained with the greasy stink. He had no idea what to do with the naked body the maid's black dress hid. But he knew as the scattered on the stone floor piece by piece there was no turning back. He had to fight that battle unknowingly of the horrors of the others waited for him. At that moment that girl looked more frightening than a regiment of soldiers charging to him through the no man’s land between the two lines of trenches.

They still had the same sheets after all these years. _Something has never changed._

A cheap wooden ashtray landed on the dingy table before the ash from his cigarette could fall down. He looked up and met the disapproving blue glare staring at him.

"Ain't no puffing here, Toff," she grumped, her grating accent hasn’t smoothed any through the years, even so it became coarser.

Grudgingly, Alistair stubbed his cigarette. "As Lady Kaily requests," he jeered.

The sallow girl grimaced as took away the ashtray, and dusted the table with a cloth, attached to her white apron. Her hands were wrinkled covered with liver spots. The hard work stole their youthfulness. This house took away decades from the girl, the silky and tight skin, the nice figure, the naughty smile. The siren whose singing filled his lonely hours in the trenches had scattered in the wind of time and only a woman stayed with a bent back and dangling breasts.

"Don't cha have anything to do just pestering me here?" she grumbled. "Others weeping in the cemetery."

Alistair sipped from his cup. A satisfied hum escaped from his lips. There was a long time he drank a decent coffee. not that watered horse piss they have at the Yard or at that filthy, rugged place he usually ate a few bites to shift yesterday’s unsavory taste to the recent day’s unsavory taste. "I didn't want to disappoint Isolde."

"You can only disappoint her, Toff."

"Well, at least something never changes," Kaily looked at him and a small smile curled at the corner of her mouth. Something remained in her from the kitchen maid with two braids she was once, much before everything.

Alistair’s eyes wandered on the bundle and a luggage at her legs, ready for a journey, stuffed with all the trinkets and treasures a maid could or hoped to own.

"She released me from duty, ya know," she answered his unsaid question, impassively as they talked about the weather. Alistair snapped watching the girl as accurately folded the clean linen. "She won't give me a recommendation. Lurchers and whores ain't deserve it."

"Lurchers and whores?" Alistair raised his eyebrows.

"I wanted to give her back, ya know. But the Master snuffed it." The girl wiped some gathering tears from her eyes. "I didn't need it after all."

Astonishment must've settled on Alistair’s face since the maid put the clean linen in the basket then went to a small cabinet beside the wobbly bed taking out a bottle of amber liquid from it. She rushed out to the kitchen bringing in two glasses. Two fingers for both of them.

 _Schnapps_. Alistair always hated it, still, he drowned. Only that felt appropriate.

"The bracelet. with red gems," she said, her voice weak from the burning of the shot. "The redhead strumpet said it should be enough to buy a doctor or a midwife," she poured another one for herself but didn't drink. "She said I need it more than her."

Alistair attentively leaned on the table as listened the woesome maid. "When the Lady figured, she threw it in the fireplace. Called me a whore, like her." She burst into tears. Alistair reached for his handkerchief and handed it to the maid. "Maybe she is a whore acting and walking like a fine lady, but she was kind enough to help me when the priests and the sisters turned their face away. She knew the Lady would've kicked me out if knew I'm knocked up. And he, that bastard bailed out. But the Maker settled things."

Alistair reached across the table and touched Kaily's calloused hand. "I will find a new place for you, Kaily, I promise. We'll figure something out." He moved from his seat to embrace her. The maid buried her face into his chest, soaking his shirt with her tears. She searched his suit pockets for a napkin and he wished if had one to offer,, but he never was a gentleman, carrying things like this. It was more like a Cullen-thing to do. So he reached out a freshly ironed linen one on the cupboard offering for the weeping maid.

“I’ve just starched them, Toff,” she disapprovingly shoved his offering hand, wiping away her tears and mucus with the tattered sleeves of her maid dress. Alistair looked on the embroidered monogram of _T.G._ on the napkin.

“He won’t need it six feet under,” he said as offered it to her again. With a weak smile, the girl took the napkin. “Isolde won’t won’t miss a napkin.”

“Ain’t no be so sure, Toff,” she riposted, some joy smuggling in her trembling voice. “The Lady even counted the dust in the attic.” They both burst out in laughing as Alistair hugged the maid again, softly whispering into her ears that everything would be alright.

A sudden and confident knock on the maid’s door scattered them and before a further invitation a man in police uniform appeared in a door, crispy saluting to Alistair, who lazily eased him.

“Sir,” the officer said. Even when her reported, Carroll’s voice was like a whiny-pouty kid, who just lost his lollipop. “Your immediate presence is needed at the Cathedral.”

Alistair always found him annoying as he found everybody who made this job with integrity, with the belief they are working for the greater good. Cullen was like this, but he at least had the wit, the ability to bend the rules when it was necessary. But Carroll, he could only work by the book.

“I’m off duty, buddy, pester someone else, okay? Rutherford, maybe?” he snapped as turned back to the silent maid.

The officer deliberately stepped one closer to them, colliding the corner of his shoes loud enough to draw Alistair’s attention back to him. “Inspector Rutherford is already there. Chief Duncan’s explicit request to call you in for duty.” Alistair raised his eyebrows. “There is another murder, sir.”

* * *

Solona watched the amber liquid in her cup, the settling leaves on the bottom and the steam rising from the smooth surface, the fast and skilled hand preparing the cake tray and precisely pouring the cream into her tea, just the right amount, just as she liked. At least he knew how to treat her. She lit her cigarette and exhaled the initial drag, observing the man before her. The broad shoulder, the still somehow lean figure wrapped in a navy blue suit and silver tie. The long raven black hair tied together, the small goatee under his lover lip.

“Smoking is bad for your health,” he said as he squirmed in his seat, avoiding her glance. He wanted to be with her there as much as herself.

She giggled. “Smoking is my least harming bad habit.”

The man cleared his throat, to make his point more obvious for her. And if she had been more defiant, she would have even blown the smoke into his stern face, but sadly she was in his debt. She had too many debts, she realized. So, with a purse of her lips, she stumped it on the ashtray near the table.

“You, righteous men can be so boring,” she sighed.

“I’m not a whitewashed detective indeed,’ he scoffed. Solona should have been surprised. But of course he kept her under eyes. For him she was an investment. A very inconvenient but very profitable one.

“Shame, but we can’t get everything we want, can we?”

The man released an annoyed sigh. “Let’s stick to business, shall we?”

Solona’s lips curved to a wide cynical smile as she took out the brown folder from her bag and casually dropped on the table. The man anxiously opened it an his eyes ran across the the lines, growing large, before stoicness settled back on his expression.

“Did you read this?” he asked.

Solona nodded indifferently as leaned back in her seat.

The man leaned closer over the table and observed her. “I’ve been wondering for a time now, actually since our first meeting in Minrathous, what is your agenda, Solona.”

“A very simple one, survival,” she answered. “I’m not interested in politics or red lyrium smuggling or the high stake corruption. Or anything else that it in that report.”

“Until your interest demands it to be involved.” His coldness of his tone shivered through her body so strong it gave her goosebumps.

“You have a very bad opinion about me, don’t you,” she smirked.

“I just like to know where I stand with you,” he answered.

“It is simple. I gave you something, to repay my debt,” she reached for my purse and handled him a small vial of ashes. “And now I’m giving you something, to get something,” the man examined the little vial.

“What do you want?” he asked, his voice curious.

“Where is the Chalice?” she asked. The man raised his eyebrows as he looked at her.

“I’m not the one who should know this,” he answered.

She threw her head back as she laughed. “But you know, don’t you?” she confidently crossed her arms before her chest and watched his every reaction. But not even a simple muscle of him twitched.

"I certainly heard some rumors, like the police is also searching for it."

"Just like Zevran and his precious customers or you," she pointed out. "I wonder why a simple trinket interests so many?"

"The chalice..." the man uncomfortably cleared his throat. "It was used for... a certain rituals... using... blood"

Solona raised her eyebrows. "I never pictured you a man who is interested in occult sciences."

"I'm not, indeed," he admitted. "But my superiors do."

"Then let’s make a deal. I do the dirty job for you to get your precious Chalice, and with it you help me selling out Zevran to the Tevinter cartell," she took a long sip from her cup, waiting her words to settle in the man's stomach. The tea cooled down to lukewarm ruining the taste. "We can leave out your Order mingling our shady businesses," a small smile curled at the side od her lips. "Discretion is guarantied."

She saw a glint flashing across tge stoic eyes. She had at least his curiosity. “Interesting,” he scratched his goatee seemingly weighting the the girl before him. Solona didn’t falter. “You want to bite the hand that feeds you?”

“No, I want to bite the hand that holds my leash.” she answered. 

The man chuckled as leaned back, his eyes still measuring her. “You know, the Order could use an amoral someone like you.”

Solona laughed. Louder than she should have, drawing some attention to them. “You!? The Champions of the Just?”

“You obviously didn’t learn history,” he smirked. 

“I've never believed in ideas, only in profit. But we can end our compulsory relationship. I’m interested in that. “She stretched out her hand to offer to the man. “Deal?”

* * *

A police car waited before her door, a young man in uniform standing before it. It wasn't an unusual hour for a visit in that part of the Rise, still the presence of the black and white car and the flashing blue light attracted the bored neighbors who craved for a juicy gossip.

"The Yard didn't give much to discretion," Solona said to herself as got out and with deliberate steps walked to her door, avoiding the meaningful glance of the policeman.

“Miss Amell,” she heard the young boy’s voice was high, sounding like a constant whining.

“When I was sure this time I wasn’t the one you are waiting for, Carroll,” she said as turned to the officer.

"Sorry to disappoint you, Miss," he handled her the warrant for interrogation. “But I have to escort to the Yard,” he said. Solona read the paper, the strict signature of Chef Duncan.

"Will you even cuff me? She teased him.

"Only if you are reluctant to come," he said as opened the door for Solona.

With an annoyed sigh nodded and signaled to her chauffeur to follow them and got in the police car followed by curious glances and hushed whispers of the bypassers. At least she gave them another to chew on.


End file.
